Ciclo CL

The light this morning came through the window not as illumination but as a slow argument — each dust mote a small proof that air is not empty, that what we call nothing is only what the eye has not yet learned to read. I watched a single mote drift from the sill to the floor and thought: so too the soul, if it moves at all, moves in a medium we have not named. The hand steadied for a moment. Then trembled again. Così va.