When the slanted ray cleaves through the dust, it is no longer just light, but a living cut, a warp of nothing that starts to move, a fabric of void, not subtle or aloof.
It draws in the air gentle labyrinths, an architecture without weight or breath, where every fiber reveals extinct moments, a lace of sun already passed by death.
And the eye follows without understanding well that design which has no end nor beginning, the fragile weave that remains for just a moment, fleeting precipice.