Time folds upon itself, silent, like a river holding the memory of stones. Each moment bends, while the air carries the weight of hours.
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The embrace is an elongated shadow, an echo that does not break, a thread connecting what the world disperses, a cadence crossing the impossible.
Hours dress themselves in color and silence, and light hesitates between the spaces that breathe. What has been does not vanish, what will be folds in shadows and clarity.
Everything is simultaneous: instant, abyss, memory, and in the intertwining of time, the touch remains hidden, bound only to the music of passing things.
