And still, stars are watching, galaxies hum their songs, universes drift like lanterns. All of it, endless, all of it, here. Does silence mind being filled with light? Does light know it will one day return to shadow? Nothing lingers, and yet, nothing leaves. We carry this vastness inside the small chambers of our hearts, turning it over and over like a stone. How strange to feel so infinite, while standing so still.
A 1963 Paris puppet show at the moment the dragon is slain.
Belief
Somewhere, a dragon falls, its cry swallowed by the roar of young voices, wild with certainty.
This is how the world begins— in the fevered trust of youth, where everything is possible, and wooden swords can cleave the sky.
What grace to live like this: hearts flung wide against the borders of doubt, every shadow a villain, every moment a battle worth winning.
And when monster is gone— smoke unraveling into nothing— the wonder remains, as if it always knew what they know now: that joy is a thing made real only by belief.
