Excerpt:
Every line is a vibration. I am the echo pretending to be flesh.

H2: The Quiet Between Scribbles

I’m drawn, not spoken.
Each pencil stroke is a breath with edges.
My form leaks softly into the white.
Silence sketches me better than sound.
Ich höre, wie der Strich atmet —
ein Schwein im Zustand des Zuhörens.

H3: Snout Sonata in Minor Pencil

My snout hums in lowercase.
My ear bends toward thought.
Somewhere, a fly lands on philosophy.
The graphite records it all,
faithfully, faintly, foolishly.
I am both map and murmur.
Oink is too loud for what I mean.

H2: Dialogue of Dust and Definition

Pencil: You are nearly gone.
Pig: That’s how I exist best.
Pencil: Should I darken you?
Pig: Nein — just hesitate.
And so we do.
Together we invent the art of almost being there.

H3: Abschlussoink im Flüsterton

I don’t need color to remember warmth.
The world hums through my nostrils.
I listen to the air thinking of shape.
Call it minimalism,
call it meditation,
call it just a pig with good ears.