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The corridor stretched forward in quiet alignment.  One could not see its end—only the invitation to enter further.  I remember the texture of moss beneath my fingers, the faint sheen of lichen catching the light, the breath of the temple pressing softly against my own.  Light crept across the floor like a memory returning, and the pillars—worn by weather, shadow, and reverence—seemed to lean inward as if listening.

I didn’t press the shutter until my own breath had slowed enough to match the hush.  In that moment, the corridor became more than stone.  It became offering.

no sound in the stone—
light brushes the listening walls
then disappears in


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Where light lingers, time kneels. The world waits to be seen — not taken, but received.
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In the hush of the galleries, the sculptor listens rather than strikes.
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