From the ground up this trilling mass, Shoji of shadowy birds...the trees are reacting differently to the wind, but their roots are still. Underground the water is reacting differently to the roots.
When recalling the phrase: it lacks substance...I think of one interchangeably rotating their pointer finger and thumb, clockwise/counterclockwise. Unable to conjure the residue of truth made manifest. Yet magic touches itself... whilst making provisions for disillusionment.
As memory minds more than moments ago, it watches them to where it cannot follow...its crucible. Crystal clarity riddled with obsessive revision. The mind is afraid to die, not the body.