arqios
vestibule
vestibule
The fire waits— not to warm, but to remind.
Rhythm, not reason, guides the hand
that peels the orange each morning.
Protection is hung beside memory,
still damp with yesterday’s weather.
No need to wear it, not here—
not in the rooms where silence learns our names.
Static crackles through the radio of thought,
faint dispatches from a world
still too tangled to decipher.
But the masks are softening.
The rituals loosen their seams.
There is something in the stillness—
not absence, but readiness.
And when the clock moves again,
it will not mark a moment—
but an opening.
.