Static Bloom

A faint flicker began above your left eye—a tremor distinct from intentional movement, yet stubbornly insistent. This new rhythm didn't echo a remembered twitch, but layered itself upon the quiet hum of your resting face. Like disturbed dust settling on glass, each attempt to recapture what *was* subtly altered the arrangement of what *is*. The body seemed less a repository of past sensation and more a constant process of reconstruction—a shifting landscape built around voids where experience once resided.