I stand at the threshold where the sea forgets its name and the garden blooms without season—each petal an argument against chronology, each trembling sphere above me a mute confession of indifference. The mountains maintain their silent verdict, rejecting both my questions and the possibility of an answer; yet their dark outlines soothe me, as though a refusal could be gentle.
My coat, threaded with labyrinths, mirrors the topography of my own thinking: corridors without termini, promises that bend back into themselves. Still, the fragrance drifting from these impossible flowers reminds me that matter persists in its own joy, unconcerned with the verdicts of consciousness.
I would like to believe there is a script hidden in the pink dusk, but the sky offers only its vast punctuation of hovering lights—ellipses rather than sentences. So I accept the nearness of beauty and the impossibility of its message. Between the indifferent cosmos and the riot of blossoms, I discover a thin shelter: the sober exhilaration of knowing there is no interpreter but myself, and that this is enough to go on breathing quietly in the dusk.
