Echo

Shrouded and enveloped by nothingness. Absence (in the) all around. Snow, melting. Lungs collapsing. Turning away might be a way to care – that is: when your back is paying attention to what it leaves behind, unseen. Maybe you’re able to hold space once there seems to be nothing left to hold onto. How would that space feel? Is it warm and yellow, an anti-room where light filters through from an adjacent window? Or is it dark and curvy, filled with mirrors that reflect nothing but the inside of the round holes in the corners? Maybe it is hollow and allows for echoes: voices, vibrations, the imprints of inclined spaces layered one on top of the other. Your lungs feel the cold air, your limbs numb, eyes streaming. There might be other bodies, you feel their presence by the wind their movements displace. What echoes from them into you? Are you their echo?