The Geometry of Dust

A single slanted beam dissects the room, illuminating what we prefer to ignore— the slow, golden procession of motes drifting through the quiet afternoon air.

They do not hurry toward the floorboards, nor do they fight the subtle currents. They are suspended in a temporary grace, artifacts of shedding skin and crumbling earth.

We sit in the shadow, watching them fall, measuring the passing of an hour not by the ticking clock on the mantel, but by the quiet accumulation of time itself.