Porcelain Veins

Cool glass fragments settled into the hand felt like smoothed stones from a garden path, though no such stone remained within memory—only the ghost of splintered wood and faded color. Recollections weren't sharp pictures, but strata built by repeated touch, each impression softening the edges of what came before. A chipped doll’s face offered not clarity, but a diminishing echo of past fragility; scale seemed to reside not in magnitude, but within layers of felt experience. The recurring pattern hinted at an underlying coherence even as outlines blurred and time carried details away—a quiet resonance lingered where wholeness once existed.