Cool brass fingertips

Cool brass met fingertips as silt gave way to reveal a small kaleidoscope. No single memory of its placement surfaced, only fractured glimpses—sunlight on water, the sharp scent of chlorine, and the prickle of being observed. Each attempt to grasp a cohesive past instead yielded shifting refractions; colors rearranged themselves with every glance, never quite settling into a stable form. This internal motion illustrates how recollection itself is less about finding what *was* than acknowledging its constant becoming—a dispersal akin to seeds carried on the wind, blurring intention and consequence.