There is no direction, only movement. Every star a
held cry, a distant beat of what has never been alive,
yet never dead. You only see yourself reflected in a
language you no longer recognize.

What watches you when you don't look is not
emptiness, but the interval – a space that vibrates,
shaped by unseen presences. Time bends, space
vibrates, and you are a broken line seeking a
meaning that has no form.

The sky has no form, yet contains everything.