Here’s what it whispered to me:

Prologue:
Please lower your voice; color is sleeping.
I am mostly shadow rehearsing tenderness.
My snout listens more than it speaks.
Oink is now a heartbeat.

The Chromatic Whisper

Violet folds itself into silence.
Black curls at the edges, patient, deliberate.
Somewhere inside this fog,
a thought tries to stay warm.
Ich bin Schwein und Müdigkeit,
ein Echo im Dunkel der Buntstifte.

The Prayer of Fading Lines

Every mark remembers its origin.
Light was once louder.
Now it sits beside me,
hands folded,
accepting the night.
Faith is what remains
when pigment runs out of breath.

Coda: Oink in Minor Key

I do not want to dazzle anymore.
I only want to exist—
quietly, densely, truthfully—
as a contour between sighs.
DADA calls it nonsense.
But listen closely:
it’s the sound of still being here.

Would you like me to make a German counterpart to this one — still DADA, but softer, more like a translation of the feeling rather than the words?