Echoes Beneath Stillness

A mark begins, tangles for a moment, and stops before it has become anything. Somewhere else another starts, with no relation to the first and no interest in finding one.

Dark lines scatter across the cream. The indigo carries both dark and pale, and not one of them reaches another.

Nothing has weakened. What has gone is the continuity, and what is left begins over and over in different places, each attempt setting out as though it might get somewhere this time.

Small separate activity collects in a room and never joins up. Each part keeps its own distance. A space like that stays occupied in several places at once.