And yet, for three days now, it has been the only thing I can think about.
By evening, the word had rooted in my dreams. I saw a landscape of wet gravel and low sky. In the distance, something was moving—not walking, not slithering, but unfolding . It had no color, only texture: rough, layered, like dried mud cracking. When it turned toward me, I understood that it did not have a face because it had never needed one. What it had was attention. Heavy. Warm. Hungry. And yet, for three days now, it has
I woke up with scratches on my forearm. Three parallel lines. Not deep, but deliberate. In the distance, something was moving—not walking, not
That low, slow groan, coming from inside the wall, inside the sentence, inside the space between this word and the next? What it had was attention