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Night’s last echo drains away, leaving only the measured drip of rain from apsara crowns. Root and wall share one damp heartbeat; my own joins them. Film waits, cool and receptive as river stone beneath water. I wait, too, until breath thins and the hush becomes articulate. Then exposure—slow, unhurried—lets mist engrave its pale signature across the negative. Hand-toning will later kindle a muted glow, fragile as incense smoke rising from a ruined altar.

wet root, broken wall—
each keeps the other from falling
into its own hush


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