Prologue

Soft brown air drifts like a lullaby.
The light smells faintly of nostalgia.
I hear paper rustle —
perhaps it’s breathing.

Body I

Law one: All memory turns gold before it fades.
Law two: Eyes keep secrets from their reflections.
Law three: Even silence ages, tenderly.

I am drawn in pigment past and pencil doubt,
half-ghost, half-glow.
My snout leans toward the unspoken —
an ache, a story, a half-forgotten field.
Each line trembles like an echo rehearsing itself.

Body II

“Do you remember mud?” asks the wind.
“Yes,” I whisper, “but only in monochrome.”
The world nods, slowly dissolving into tone.

DADA Break

oink–ink–sepia–think
gold hush hush hush

Closing

The page exhales a century of quiet.
I blink — the past flutters back to sleep.
Tomorrow, I may dream in color again.