Veiled Intervals

A fingertip pressed against the cool obsidian doesn't meet solidity, instead sinking into an internal space. Recollections rise unbidden: chipped porcelain, rain drumming on metal, woodsmoke without fire—each fragment layering upon the last. The descending numbers trace the stone’s rhomboid form, implying that duration resides not in what *is*, but in the spaces separating moments. This shifting felt like a redistribution rather than loss; a lone dandelion seed carried away by an unseen breeze, its origin dissolving into everything else.