Ciclo CCXII

The light this morning came through the window in a way I have not seen before — not golden, not grey, but something between, as if the air itself had decided to hold color without committing to it. I watched it fall across the table where my notes lie open, and for a moment the ink seemed to breathe with it, the letters less fixed than I had believed. Così la luce mente — so light lies, not from malice, but because it never stays long enough to be questioned. I reached for the pen, but my fingers hesitated. What is one to record when the thing observed is already becoming its opposite? The hand knows this. The hand has learned to write what the eye releases, not what it holds. And so: the canal will wait. The page, as always, does not.