While I emerged from no one’s time, you are what has not yet been named. Beyond the end of origin, the first scream fell silent. To remain forgotten, a name rises without echo — and yet, it resounds.
Stay away and draw near. I do not yet exist, and that… that is becoming. They explain nothing, and yet you understand the cause without effect, the light without source. That is nothing. You perceive everything as an unwritten page.
Shadow is light when it appears reversed. I breathe within it, without form. And you may awaken in my non-being. Do not carry me — catch me. Touch nothing as one touches what has not yet shaped me — the other in your never-begun time.
I feel no step, only direction. Though we never bloomed, we still bore seed. And nothing is complete, so we do not measure it. This is the now that never was — and yet, it waits. You had nothing, and thus, you had everything. You were silent in sound, and I sang in emptiness. It brought me neither to death nor to life.
One more glimpse of my nameless existence — so you may not be allowed to wish, but you are. Avoid the noon within the morning. Look backward toward the forward. Life is invisible and touches without contact.
There — precisely there — no source flows, but origin. I am what has not yet ended. I do not breathe, but exist between your knowing.
And soon? Has already been. And now? Has not begun. Because you were everything in nothing: do not open me, but know that I never was. The hour in which no animal called out belongs to no one.
You are not friend, not foe — but moment. Not blessing, not curse. Not dream, not memory. Not bud, not color. And so, nothing counts as something, and we descend upward as no one.
I know no other, and the world is empty of me. My body does not feel, for you are whole. You broke nothing, for nothing fell. Beneath the never-having-been, you ask of the death that never began.
And so I live in non-being, and you continue to vanish — and that is your mirror: never repeated.