a stitch of air — tiny bell, molted glass, threading silence through the seam.

micro-steps on metal grass, a whisper ledgered into brass; each footfall trims the map of sleep.

measure the hush: small instruments, the offbeat of a clock that never rests. we move — discreet, precise — and leave no trace.

microminimuscom pass

a half-breath opens, then collapses; light counts down in paper masses. the pass remembers what we barely kept.