Sorrow feels like a naked murmur over time’s absence. Its depth and vastness are a constant return to the forces that shaped you. Forces you have swallowed like knives. Again, over time. When there is nothing, this is where you hide and find yourself, all at once.
On a quiet afternoon marked by a minimum cloud.
On a rainy day weeping with no tears.
It comes to pass, and it is nothing at all.
Detached from everything, including detachment.