There is a seed on the table.
I push it aside with my finger.
A moment later it is back where it was.
Not because it moved.
Because I am no longer sure I touched it.
The ring of dust around it seems older than the table itself.
For a few seconds I try to remember when I entered this room.
The only thing that returns is the image of a harvest I never witnessed.
There is a rule here.
I do not understand it yet.
But I am beginning to suspect that nothing is ever fully consumed.
Something always remains.
Not in the body.
Somewhere else.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
