The air in an empty room is never truly vacant.
It is heavy with the ghost of every choice not yet made.
A wooden chair sits in a pool of dust and light.
It is a seat.
It is a barricade.
It is firewood.
Until a finger touches the grain.
The heart beats in the stutter between the maybe and the must.
Reality is merely a lingering echo of a decision
that finally found its gravity.
Sorrow and joy dance in the blur.
Waiting for the weight of a glance to make them real.
Existence is a shy guest that only shows up when watched.
Everything is a swarm of maybes
until the attention pays the bill.
The universe is a stuttering shutter.
A flicker of friction.
A blur of becoming.
Choice is the chisel that kills the curve to carve the stone.
Do not blink.
The stillness is a lie told by a fast moving liquid.
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