Hypothesis of the Undone You want to linger, but not as mass. More as a pause in the formula— a bracket someone forgot to close. What if sleep is the original version of leaving? What if time is a side effect? You count nothing, but something counts you: a flicker, a vital, a maybe. In the mirror, no face. Just velocity slowing to shape. They call it medicine. You call it theory— an abstract on how light bends around refusal. You want to believe in matter because it resists. You want to believe in spirit because it doesn’t. And in the middle, a hum. Not healing, not dying. Just a hum that sounds like hope if you tilt your head the right way.
