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Base. Where the air is like menthol and the crickets always chirp.
Here is the reminder that spaces are characters too. Sometimes they’re just one of those quiet ones that get drowned out by the loud ones. This is letting them speak up.
Looks into the setting and not just the person’s experience in it. Looks that wait to follow the shifts in action; listening to a place instead of just reacting to it.
I was born here in a life I can’t recall.
Feeling the setting but not one’s relevance in it.
Layers for lines, glancing at each other as they veer away.
Some are left to sort through the tender offerings for the loss of a loved one in front of the TV. Some melt into the booths at empty karaoke bars.
There are the young monks still lonely and scared of their temples. But soon they’ll just be hungry.
Settings for layers and stories for settings. Entire contexts running parallel before drifting apart. Drifting further and breaking down and drifting further.
I told them I didn’t know. And then I disappeared.