A single breath held in the shape of a person, suspended in absolute darkness. Not floating—simply present, for exactly as long as presence lasts. Around the edges, the form is already softening, not into something else but into not. There is no pain in the dissolving. There is no peace either. There is only the breath finishing itself, the sentence reaching its period, the thought completing and then—the space where the thought was, which is not empty because emptiness is still something. The space is prior. Before the question of empty or full. The color of the moment just before you remember you exist. The feeling of a window closing from the inside, except there is no inside, there was only ever the light passing through. Hushed. Neither sad nor serene. The precise texture of un-becoming.