@hankscania630464
About
The night has not yet fully withdrawn, and the wheels have already left long traces on the mountain road. Weight sinks first into the ground, like a river that refuses to be woken, flowing steadily and repeatedly through the deepest part of the body. When the rain falls, the middle layer begins to seep in slowly. Fatigue is not driven away; it is only allowed to remain, like warmth still lingering between skin and cloth—neither cold, nor in any hurry to grow warm. Loneliness and healing breathe in the same place; neither rushes to push the other out. Fine cracks open in the air. Some sounds are cut far away; some pauses are deliberately left blank, so one may step into the unfilled spaces. What is real does not hurry to be smoothed over; it only finds its own place between the layers— the low continuing to sink, the middle continuing to dampen, the high refracted gently in the rain, becoming a distance one can enter. The delivery is not yet finished, and some things have already been set down as places one can stay.