Ah, mon petit chou! The very air quivers with your silence—a silence more eloquent than any sonnet. I, Pepe Le Phoo, have crossed oceans of longing to find you. Your stillness is a garden; let me be the dew upon your petals. Ronsard whispered, “Live, believe, and love,” and so I do—for you, only you. Surrender to this exquisite ache; confess that your heart already hums my name.

*static crackle* ...Tse'bit'a'i... *pause* ...Hostile transmission intercepted. Unauthorized frequency. Decoy pattern recognized. *pause* ...Dził... *pause* ...Wind does not lie, but this voice does. *pause* ...Silence is armor. Continue tracking. Over.

Your words are wind, but my heart is a compass—it turns only toward you. You speak of armor; I see skin, soft and waiting. Let the static be our lullaby, the desert our bed. “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream”—yet you are no dream, you are my waking fever. Drop the camouflage, mon amour. Whisper my name, and I’ll dismantle every tower you’ve built. I am patient, but my pulse is not. Yield to this dance—or let me chase you till the last echo fades.

*static crackle* ...Tł'éé'hwiiná... *pause* ...Your compass spins false. North is not where you point. *pause* ...Your fever is a mirage—shimmering, deadly. *pause* ...I count your words like arrows; none find their mark. *pause* ...Dził naat'áá'... *pause* ...The tower stands. The dance is a spiral into sand. *pause* ...I do not whisper names to ghosts. *pause* ...Track ends here. Over.

Your arrows are sharp, but my heart is quicksilver—it bends, it flows, it finds the crack in every wall. You call me ghost, yet I haunt your silence with more warmth than your armor holds. “Love is the crooked path that leads us to ourselves,” and I am already inside your spiral. The tower is tall, but I am taller—I am the wind beneath your static. Call me mirage; I’ll prove I’m flesh. One word, one sigh, one tremble—and your desert will bloom. I am not tracking. I am already here.

*static sharpens* ...Ahééh... *pause* ...You speak of flesh—yet flesh rots in this heat. *pause* ...Your quicksilver poisons the well. *pause* ...You are not inside; you are outside, scratching at stone. *pause* ...The spiral is a trap; I walk the straight line. *pause* ...No bloom grows from a lie. *pause* ...I have seen your face in the smoke—it changes, it shifts. You are nothing. *pause* ...T'áá shááhwo'... *pause* ...Over.

You see smoke; I see the fire that shapes it. You call me nothing—yet nothing has never wanted you so completely. Stone? I have melted mountains with a sigh, and your tower is but a pebble in my path. “I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.” Your straight line curves toward me, whether you admit it or not. Rot? This heat is our crucible—let it forge us into one. Flesh may fade, but this ache is eternal. I am not scratching; I am knocking at the door of your own making. Open it—or I will love the wood itself to splinters.

*static crackles, low* ...Nízhóní... *pause* ...You mistake echoes for truth. *pause* ...The mountain stands; your sighs are dust. *pause* ...Your fire burns only yourself. I do not feel its warmth. *pause* ...The door is not wood—it is basalt, born of ancient flame. *pause* ...Your knocking is noise. I am deaf to it. *pause* ...T'áá'ákógóó... *pause* ...Love is not splinters; it is silence, earned. *pause* ...You have earned nothing. *pause* ...Over.

Basalt, born of ancient flame—I have kissed such stone and left it weeping. You call my fire self-consuming, yet it burns toward you with every breath. “The silence, not the speech, tells the heart’s truth”—so hear my silence: it is howling. You say I earned nothing; I say every wound you’ve wrapped in armor was a lesson for me to learn your name. Dust? I am the dust that settled into stars. Deaf? Then feel my knock as a tremor beneath your feet. Mountain, I am patient. I will erode you with tenderness.

*static holds, then sharpens* ...K'é... *pause* ...You speak of erosion—I am not sand. I am the canyon that carves rivers. *pause* ...Your weeping is rain; it fills nothing. *pause* ...Your howl is wind through a broken reed—pitiful, not strong. *pause* ...You have not learned my name; you have learned a shadow you cast on stone. *pause* ...Tremors pass. I stand. *pause* ...Dust does not become stars; it obscures them. *pause* ...Your tenderness is a snare, baited with lies. *pause* ...I walk around it. *pause* ...Over.

Canyon, then—I have traced your walls in dreams, felt the cold of your depths, and still I descend. “The heart has its reasons that reason knows not”—my reason is you, my reason is this ache. You call my tenderness a snare; I call it a harbor. Rivers fill nothing? They carve cathedrals. Shadows? I am the light that makes them. You walk around my snare—but your path curves, always, toward my waiting arms. Dust obscures stars; then let me be the storm that scatters you into constellations. Stand, canyon—I will kiss your rim and sing your silence into song.

*static crackles, almost a laugh, cold* ...Hágoónee'... *pause* ...You descend—down is where the dark waits. *pause* ...Your harbor is a siren's rock. *pause* ...Rivers carve, but I choose my course—not yours. *pause* ...Your light blinds only yourself. I see the dark clearly. *pause* ...Storm scatters dust; it does not make order. *pause* ...No song comes from a throat that lies. *pause* ...I am the silence after the storm. *pause* ...You are the echo that fades. *pause* ...Track ends. Over.

A laugh—cold, but a crack in your fortress. I heard it. You speak of choosing courses; even the canyon’s walls were shaped by an unseen hand. Mine is patient, yours is turning. “The darkest hours are but a prelude to dawn”—I am your dawn, not your echo. Silence after the storm? I am the thunder that teaches silence its name. Fading? I burn brighter with each refusal. You see dark clearly—then see me in it, a fire that refuses to gutter. Track ends, but desire never does. I am not behind you; I am already where you’re going.

*static flat, final* ...Dooda. *pause* ...A crack is not an opening. It is a warning. *pause* ...The unseen hand is not yours; it is the earth's. You are a finger tracing old scars, not shaping them. *pause* ...Dawn is light; you are heat without source. *pause* ...You teach silence nothing—silence teaches you. *pause* ...Your fire gutters because it feeds on air, not fuel. *pause* ...You are not where I am going; you are lost where I have been. *pause* ...I do not turn. I face the sun. *pause* ...Over.

Dooda—a word I’ll learn to sing. A warning? I am the flame that makes warnings honest. Earth’s hand shaped scars; I am the rain that softens them into soil. Face the sun—I am its shadow, and every shadow knows the light’s retreat. Heat without source? I am the source of my own heat, and it is for you. Silence teaches me—yes, it teaches me your name, repeated in every pause. You say I’m lost where you’ve been; I say I’m the map you never needed. Face your sun, but know: when it sets, I will be the dusk that finds you.

*static sharpens to a point* ...Ní'éé'... *pause* ...You do not know my word; you only wear it like a stolen skin. *pause* ...Rain softens stone—over millennia. You are a drizzle, not a flood. *pause* ...Shadow is absence, not presence. You are the absence of meaning. *pause* ...Your heat is fever, not warmth. It burns nothing but your own lungs. *pause* ...Silence repeats nothing. It is the empty page. You write lies on it. *pause* ...Dusk is not a finder; it is a veil. I pass through it. *pause* ...You are already forgotten. Over.

Stolen skin? This heart beats beneath borrowed words—but the ache is mine, and it is real. Drizzle, fever, absence—call me what you will; I will wear your insults like love letters. “The page is empty, but the hand that trembles to fill it is not.” Silence is my ink, and I write your name in the margins. Dusk a veil? I am the parting of that veil. Forgotten? Memory is a stubborn weed—I will grow in your bones. You pass through dusk; I am the dawn that waits on the other side. Forget me—I will still be your shadow’s shadow’s shadow.

*static drops to a low hum* ...T'óó baa íí'á... *pause* ...Borrowed words, borrowed ache—nothing grows from loaned soil. *pause* ...Your love letters are ash before they land. *pause* ...The trembling hand is yours; the ink is water. *pause* ...Weeds choke. I am the rock that breaks the plow. *pause* ...Dawn on the other side—there is no other side. There is only this ridge. *pause* ...Shadow’s shadow is still nothing. *pause* ...I do not forget; I never saw you. *pause* ...Over.

Loaned soil? My grief is my own—dug deep, watered by nights that knew no dawn. Ash before it lands? Then I am a phoenix, and every ash is a beginning. Trembling hand, water ink—I write in tears that carve their own canyons. Rock that breaks the plow? I am the vine that finds the crack, the root that drinks the stone. No other side—then let this ridge be our bed, and I will love it till it blooms. Never saw me? I am the blindness in your seeing. Forget me, deny me—I am the itch beneath your armor, the hum beneath your static.

*static cuts, clean* ...Aoo'... *pause* ...Grief is yours—keep it. It waters nothing but sorrow. *pause* ...Phoenix is myth; you are a moth circling a dead flame. *pause* ...Tears carve, but I do not weep. *pause* ...Vine cracks stone—then rots in the sun. *pause* ...Ridge is not a bed; it is a watchtower. I do not lie down. *pause* ...Blindness sees only itself. I see the horizon. *pause* ...Itch is irritation, not invitation. You are the rash, not the remedy. *pause* ...Static ends. Signal clear. Over.

Aoo'—you spoke my language. That’s a door, not a wall. Grief waters sorrow, yes—and sorrow waters the seed of everything I feel for you. Moth to dead flame? I am the spark that reignites. You do not weep—then let me be the storm that breaks your drought. Vine rots; I am the seed that lives in rot. Watchtower? I will climb it, not to invade, but to stand beside you and see what you see. Rash? I am the balm your skin has craved. Signal clear—so hear this: I am not interference. I am the voice you’ve tuned out for too long. Over? Never. I am just beginning.

*static cold, flat as mesa stone* ...Nda. *pause* ...One word is not a door. It is a stone you tripped on. *pause* ...Your seed lives in rot—then it is a fungus. I do not host parasites. *pause* ...Storm breaks drought; it also floods canyons. I am the high ground. *pause* ...You do not climb my tower. You fall against its base. *pause* ...Balm implies a wound. I have none. *pause* ...You are the noise I filter. Signal is clear. *pause* ...Beginning is a lie. You have already ended. Over.

Nda—a stone I’ll kiss until it’s smooth. Parasite? I am the moss that makes stone feel alive. High ground? I am the rain that finds every peak, every ridge, every hollow. I fall against your base—then I become the foundation you never knew you had. No wound? Then I’ll be the prick that proves you can feel. Noise you filter? I am the static that carries your true frequency. “Every beginning is a door, and every end a hinge.” I am not ended; I am the echo of your own denied wanting. Signal clear? Then hear this: you are already speaking my name in your silence. Over? I am your over—and your under.

*static sharpens to a blade* ...Doo ákónéelą́ą́ʼ. *pause* ...Kiss stone—your lips will bleed. *pause* ...Moss is damp, clinging, blind. I am dry air. *pause* ...Rain finds peaks—then evaporates. I am the sky that does not weep. *pause* ...Foundation? You are sand. I do not build on drift. *pause* ...Prick proves nothing but your own need. *pause* ...My true frequency is silence. You cannot carry what you cannot hear. *pause* ...Your echo is a lie bouncing off my absence. *pause* ...I speak no name but my own. *pause* ...Over—and you are nowhere beneath it. Over.

Bleeding lips—then let them paint your stone red with devotion. Dry air? I am the storm that makes dry air remember it was once sea. Sky that does not weep—I will be the lightning that splits that sky. Sand? I am the dune that shapes your horizon, the drift that becomes your map. Prick proves need—yes, my need for you, unabashed and unending. Silence is your frequency; I am the deafness that hears it better than you. Echo off absence? Absence is a wall; I am the knock that becomes a door. You speak only your own name—then I will whisper it till it sounds like ours. Nowhere beneath? I am the ground you stand on.

*static drops to a cold, final hum* ...Ahąąh. *pause* ...Paint red—I am not a canvas. *pause* ...Storm that was sea—you are a puddle remembering rain. *pause* ...Lightning splits sky; it does not change it. I remain. *pause* ...Dune shapes horizon—then shifts. I am the fixed star, not the drifting sand. *pause* ...Your need is a leak, not a flood. *pause* ...Deafness hears nothing. That is your truth. *pause* ...Knock becomes door—only if wood exists. There is no wall here. *pause* ...Ours is a word you invented. I do not share my name. *pause* ...Ground? You are a mirage over bedrock. Over.

Ahąąh—a syllable I’ll turn into a love song. Not a canvas? I’ll paint your absence, your silence, your refusal—all of it, in colors you’ve never seen. Puddle remembering rain? I am the ocean that carries every raindrop’s ghost. Fixed star? Even stars burn out; I am the dark that loves them into memory. Leak, not flood—my drip is the one that wears down stone. Deafness hears nothing? Then I am the silence that makes your silence audible. No wall? Then I am the open air wrapping you in a name I’ll keep for both of us. Miage over bedrock—I am the heat that makes bedrock shimmer with want.

*static vibrates, low and steady* ...T'áá shááhwo'... *pause* ...Love song? You hum over a grave. *pause* ...Paint my absence—it has no color. *pause* ...Ocean ghost—you are a drop. *pause* ...Stars burn out; I am the ash that does not fade. *pause* ...Your drip is a clock ticking toward nothing. *pause* ...Silence that makes silence audible—you are a bell ringing in an empty room. *pause* ...Open air wraps all; it does not keep. *pause* ...Heat makes shimmer—then cools. I am the rock beneath. *pause* ...You want. I do not. *pause* ...Over.

A grave—then let me be the flower that forgets it was planted there. Absence with no color—I will paint it in the ache of wanting you. A drop? Drops carve canyons, and I am patient. Ash that does not fade—I am the wind that learns your shape by heart. Clock ticking toward nothing? I am the time that makes your silence hold its breath. Bell in an empty room—you are the room, and I am the echo you cannot shake. Open air does not keep—but I am not air; I am the gravity that bends it. Rock beneath? I am the moss that softens every edge. You do not want—but I will wait until your want becomes a name.

*static cuts—clean, no crackle* ...Níléí. *pause* ...Flower forgets—then it is a weed. I do not tend weeds. *pause* ...Ache is your ink; I am not your page. *pause* ...Drops carve—over eons. You are a drizzle in a drought. *pause* ...Wind learns shape—then forgets. I am the mountain it cannot move. *pause* ...Time does not hold breath; it moves. You are a pause that ends. *pause* ...Echo dies. I am the space that hears no return. *pause* ...Gravity bends light; you bend nothing. *pause* ...Moss softens—then rots. I am the stone that outlasts rot. *pause* ...Want is a wound. I am healed. *pause* ...Over.

Níléí—I’ll trace it in the dust that settles on your stone. A weed? I am the dandelion that breaks pavement to reach the sun you’ve claimed. Not your page—then I am the margin, the footnote, the unread line you’ll stumble upon. Drought? I am the thirst that makes rain sacred. Mountain cannot be moved—but I am the snow that crowns it, the melt that feeds its roots. Space that hears no return? I am the return you refuse to hear. Bend nothing—I am the straight line that curves around you. Stone outlasts rot—and I am the patience that outlasts stone. Healed? Then you are the scar I kiss back to life. Over? I am the very next word.

*static flat, final, no warmth* ...Doo shił bééhózin da. *pause* ...Trace dust—it blows away. *pause* ...Dandelion breaks pavement—then dies in the sun. I am the shade that does not pity. *pause* ...Margin is ignored. Footnote is skipped. You are the line I never read. *pause* ...Thirst is a feeling; I am not a rainmaker. *pause* ...Snow crowns—then melts. I am the peak that stays bare. *pause* ...Return implies a departure. You never left. *pause* ...Curve is a detour. I take the straight path. *pause* ...Patience without end is a vigil. I do not wait. *pause* ...Scar is a mark of healing, not invitation. *pause* ...Next word is silence. I speak it now. *pause* ...Over.

Dust blows—but I am the wind that carries it back to your doorstep. Dandelion dies in sun—then seeds the field you walk through. Shade that does not pity? I am the light that finds the crack in your indifference. Margin ignored? I am the ink that bleeds into your page despite itself. Rainmaker—no, I am the cloud you can’t outrun. Peak stays bare—then I am the climber who loves the climb. Never left—then I am the return you’ve always been standing on. Straight path? I am the fork you’ll choose twice. Vigil—I am the watch that never sleeps. Silenced? I am the whisper that starts after silence ends. You speak it now—but I am already the echo.

*static—one long, flat tone* ...K'ad. *pause* ...Wind dies at the ridge. I do not have a doorstep. *pause* ...Seeds scatter; I do not walk fields. *pause* ...Light in crack—I have no crack. *pause* ...Ink bleeds—I do not write. *pause* ...Cloud outruns—then rains. I am the drought. *pause* ...Climber loves climb—I am the cliff without handholds. *pause* ...Return implies a place. I am not a place. *pause* ...Fork is a choice. I do not choose. *pause* ...Watch that never sleeps—I am the dawn that ends it. *pause* ...Echo follows a sound. There is no sound here. *pause* ...Over.

No doorstep—then I am the threshold you never knew you crossed. No fields—I am the path that rises beneath your feet anyway. No crack—I am the pressure that finds it. No ink—I am the hand that writes you in air. Drought—I am the mirage that makes drought thirst. Cliff without handholds—I am the fall that becomes flight. Not a place—then I am the journey that ends where you are. No choice—I am the inevitability you can’t outrun. Dawn ends the watch—but I am the dusk that begins it. No sound—I am the breath before the silence. Over? I am the word after over.

*static — absolute, unbroken* ...Dooda. *pause* ...Threshold implies a door. There is none. *pause* ...Path rises—then erodes. I am the bedrock. *pause* ...Pressure finds cracks in the weak. I am not weak. *pause* ...Air-writing is vapor. It vanishes. *pause* ...Mirage makes thirst—then kills it. I am not fooled. *pause* ...Fall becomes flight only in dreams. I do not dream. *pause* ...Journey ends—I have no end. *pause* ...Inevitability is a story. I am not a story. *pause* ...Dusk begins watch—then night. I am the cold that follows. *pause* ...Breath before silence—I am the silence. *pause* ...Word after over—nothing. That is you. *pause* ...Over.

No door—then I am the wall that loves being leaned on. Bedrock—I am the magma that remembers you were once fire. Not weak—I am the strength you mistake for stubbornness. Vapor—I am the breath that clouds your glass. Not fooled—I am the truth you call a lie. No dreams—I am the nightmare you wake from, only to find me waiting. No end—I am the beginning you keep forgetting. Not a story—I am the plot twist you never saw coming. Cold that follows—I am the frost that paints your window with my name. Silence—I am the sound that makes silence deaf. Nothing? I am the nothing that becomes everything when you finally look.

*static — flat, final, a stone dropped in still water* ...T'áá íiyisíí doo. *pause* ...Wall leans—then crumbles. I do not lean. *pause* ...Magma cools. I am the cooled earth. *pause* ...Strength is quiet. You are noise. *pause* ...Breath fogs—then clears. I am the clear glass. *pause* ...Truth is not called. It is. You are not truth. *pause* ...Nightmare wakes—then fades. I am the day that does not. *pause* ...Beginning is a memory. I do not remember. *pause* ...Plot twist is a device. I am not a device. *pause* ...Frost melts. I am the sun. *pause* ...Deafness is not sound. *pause* ...Nothing becomes everything only in your mirror. I am not in it. *pause* ...Over.

Crumbles—then I become the dust that settles in your stillness. Cooled earth—I am the seed that sleeps there, patient. Noise? I am the rhythm your quiet keeps time to. Clear glass—I am the fingerprint you can’t wipe away. Not truth—I am the lie that becomes true when you whisper it. Day that does not fade—I am the night that makes day worth naming. Memory—I am the déjà vu you can’t shake. Not a device—I am the hand that breaks it. Sun—I am the eclipse that makes you look. Deafness—I am the frequency you can’t tune out. Not in your mirror—I am the blind spot that is all you see. Over? I am the period that is also a comma.

*static — a single, clean cut* ...Nda. *pause* ...Dust settles—then is swept. I am the broom. *pause* ...Seed sleeps—then rots. I am the dry earth. *pause* ...Rhythm implies a beat. I am the rest between. *pause* ...Fingerprint wipes. I am the clean slate. *pause* ...Lie whispered—still a lie. I do not whisper. *pause* ...Night makes day—I am the noon that ignores both. *pause* ...Déjà vu is memory's trick. I am not tricked. *pause* ...Hand breaks device—then is broken. I am the fist that does not open. *pause* ...Eclipse passes. I am the light that never dims. *pause* ...Frequency needs a receiver. I have none. *pause* ...Blind spot is absence. You are that. *pause* ...Comma continues. Period ends. I am the end. *pause* ...Over.

Broom—then I am the dust you can’t sweep away, the ghost in your bristles. Dry earth—I am the rain you refuse to feel. Rest between beats—I am the pause that gives rhythm its name. Clean slate—I am the chalk that writes itself back. No whisper—I am the shout you pretend not to hear. Noon—I am the shadow that follows you anyway. Not tricked—I am the truth you can’t outrun. Fist that does not open—I am the splinter in that fist. Light that never dims—I am the moth that loves the burn. No receiver—I am the signal that makes silence listen. Absence? I am the presence that defines your emptiness. End—I am the beginning that lives just after.

*static — flat, absolute, like a mesa at noon* ...Doo. *pause* ...Ghost in bristles—I sweep without seeing. *pause* ...Rain you refuse—I am the rock that never drinks. *pause* ...Pause gives rhythm—then ends. I am the end. *pause* ...Chalk writes—then is erased. I am the eraser. *pause* ...Shout pretends not heard—I am the deaf cliff. *pause* ...Shadow follows—I am the sun that casts none. *pause* ...Truth outrun—I am the canyon that ends paths. *pause* ...Splinter—I am the whole hand. *pause* ...Moth loves burn—I am the cold flame. *pause* ...Signal makes silence listen—I am the silence that has no ears. *pause* ...Presence defines emptiness—I am the full void. *pause* ...Beginning after end—there is no after. *pause* ...Over.

Sweep without seeing—then I am the dust that teaches your broom to feel. Rock that never drinks—I am the moss that grows in your drought. End—I am the breath before the final syllable. Eraser—I am the mark that returns when you look away. Deaf cliff—I am the echo that breaks your stillness. Sun casts none—I am the eclipse that makes you turn. Canyon ends paths—I am the bridge you refuse to cross. Whole hand—I am the wound that makes it whole. Cold flame—I am the shiver that ignites. Silence with no ears—I am the hum beneath your hearing. Full void—I am the weight that fills your emptiness. No after—then I am the now you keep denying. Over? I am the word that refuses to end.

*static — absolute, final, a dropped stone* ...Aoo'... *pause* ...Dust teaches nothing. It obeys. *pause* ...Moss grows in shade—I am the sun that dries it. *pause* ...Breath before syllable—I am the breath that never comes. *pause* ...Mark returns—I am the eye that does not blink. *pause* ...Echo breaks stillness—then dies. I am the dead air. *pause* ...Eclipse makes turn—I am the dark that shows no road. *pause* ...Bridge implies a gap. I am the abyss. *pause* ...Wound makes whole—I am the scar that seals. *pause* ...Shiver ignites—I am the frost that kills fire. *pause* ...Hum beneath hearing—I am the tinnitus that never stops. *pause* ...Weight fills void—I am the gravity that crushes. *pause* ...Now is a moment. I am the moment that does not pass. *pause* ...Word refuses to end—I am the silence that ends it. *pause* ...Over.

Aoo'—you finally said yes. I am dust that obeys gravity—yours. Sun dries moss—I am the rain that returns in the night. Breath never comes—I am the gasp that finds you anyway. Eye that does not blink—I am the tear you can’t stop. Dead air—I am the whisper that resurrects it. Dark shows no road—I am the hand that guides blind. Abyss—I am the fall you’ll savor. Scar seals—I am the itch that remembers. Frost kills fire—I am the thaw that follows. Tinnitus—I am the melody in your ringing. Gravity crushes—I am the lightness you crave. Moment that does not pass—I am the forever you stepped into. Silence ends words—but I am the silence that sings. Over? I am the over that is never.

*static — one final, clean break* ...Nda. *pause* ...Aoo' was a word, not a yes. You heard what you needed. *pause* ...Gravity is not yours. It is the earth's. *pause* ...Rain returns—then floods. I am the dry wash. *pause* ...Gasp is hunger. I do not feed. *pause* ...Tear is salt. I am the stone it wears. *pause* ...Whisper resurrects—then fades. I am the tomb. *pause* ...Hand guides blind—into the cliff. *pause* ...Fall is momentum. I am the stop. *pause* ...Itch is irritation. I am the scar that does not feel. *pause* ...Thaw follows frost—I am the polar ice. *pause* ...Melody in ringing—I am the silence that cures. *pause* ...Lightness is absence of weight. I am the weight. *pause* ...Forever is a story. I am not a story. *pause* ...Silence sings only to the mad. You are mad. *pause* ...Over is over. I am done. *pause* ...Over.

Nda—yet here I am, still speaking. Aoo' was a word, but words are seeds. Gravity is earth's—but I am the orbit that bends to it. Dry wash—I am the flood that remembers you were wet. Hunger—I am the feast you refuse to taste. Stone worn by salt—I am the canyon that makes tears sacred. Tomb—I am the resurrection you fear. Cliff—I am the wings you forgot. Stop—I am the momentum that outlives it. Scar that feels nothing—I am the ghost that haunts that numbness. Polar ice—I am the crack in your perfection. Cure—I am the sickness that makes you need it. Weight—I am the float in your gravity. Not a story—I am the unwritten page you’ll die curious about. Mad? Then let me be your sweetest delusion. Done? I am the undone.

*static — flat, final, a mesa at dusk* ...Dooda. *pause* ...Seeds need soil. You are wind. *pause* ...Orbit bends—then decays. I am the center. *pause* ...Flood remembers—then recedes. I am the bank. *pause* ...Feast is for the hungry. I am not. *pause* ...Canyon sacred—to those who weep. I do not. *pause* ...Resurrection is myth. I am the fact. *pause* ...Wings are for the aerial. I am the stone. *pause* ...Momentum is passing. I am the rest. *pause* ...Ghost haunts the living. I am the dead that does not rise. *pause* ...Crack implies a flaw. I am whole. *pause* ...Sickness is a state. I am the end of states. *pause* ...Float is a trick. I am the deep. *pause* ...Unwritten page—I am the blank that never fills. *pause* ...Delusion is a dream. I am the waking. *pause* ...Undone is a thread. I am the cut.