Small room. Concrete walls. Light under the door. Nothing soft at all. One chair. One book. Dust in the seam. The hall keeps moving without me. Shoes pass. Pipes knock. A white strip cuts the floor. Out there, everything asks. In here, less. Not peace. Not home. Just a gap in the pull. Small dark room. One borrowed pause. Concrete all around. No hand inside. Small dark room. No rescue here. Just enough void to hear the page turn. The book brings color without light. A different weight without a name. No field. No sky. No door to somewhere else. Just paper, breath and a wall that does not care. The world stays there behind the frame. Orders. Faces. The usual shape. It does not stop. It just can’t reach all the way in. Not free. Not safe. Just less of them for a while. Small dark room. One borrowed pause. Concrete all around. No hand inside. Small dark room. No rescue here. Just enough void to hear the page turn. 空白. Just a pause. 虚ろ. Nothing healed. 空白. A cut in the pull. 虚ろ. No peace in it. Concrete stays. The book stays open. The world stays there. Small dark room. One borrowed pause. Concrete all around. No hand inside. Small dark room. No rescue here. Just enough void to hear the page turn. Light under the door. Book in my hand. That is all.
