Prelude
Shh. This is a quiet oink.
I am mostly yesterday drawn again.
Each line a tremor from someone else’s hand.
Memory smells faintly of pencil dust and sigh.

---

Pale Invocation

Color fades politely here.
Orange leans into sepia,
a tired conversation between light and letting go.
The paper listens with empathy and grain.
Ich bin Schwein und Spur,
ein warmer Schatten im Archiv des Zufalls.

---

The Doctrine of Faint Lines

Faith has stopped performing; it only traces.
Nothing is loud enough to be wrong anymore.
Every smudge is an afterthought of care.
You can almost hear the silence rehearsing—
a gentle hum,
half nostalgia, half graphite.

---

Confession of the Pastel Pilgrim

Once, I believed boldness was holy.
Now I see: tenderness is the truer geometry.
Oink becomes whisper, whisper becomes witness.
Even the mistakes have learned to breathe slowly.
DADA would call it erosion.
I call it mercy on paper.