Read this as if a beam of light is slowly tracing a path across an empty room...



The body leaves a trace... long before the arrival of meaning.
A lingering contact, denser than any thought,
where the skin remembers what the mind has yet to name.

After the touch...
color surfaces on its own,
spreading like a slow oxidation,
like knowledge... once admitted into the eye.

Yellow does not belong to the object.
It is a ghost, emerging within the field of perception...
a haunting in the gaze.

The chair shifts inward...
sliding, slowly,
until it rests slightly above the center of gravity.
It begins to reshape the breath...
the posture...
the very angle through which we witness the world.

Presence is fixed through action.
It outlives the gesture,
operating in the shadows long after the hand has pulled away.

The world... remains the same.
The position... is changed forever.