If language does not breathe, it is merely thought. If it does, it lucidly ambles through today's testimony, translating the non-verbal trance of hours to the texture of pure poetry. This book is a quiet pool of water, that only your swimming through, can beautifully ruin to waves. It does not dance around the equations, mimicking a math that almost moans. But instead eavesdrops on a heartbeat, celebrating its cardiogram like calligraphy. Stories blow through it, like seasons, of which characters witness the weather. Yet it too remains a timeless dialogue, that matures insightfulness into wisdom. Wherever impermanence is law, a voice like mine, arises, singing. And then it passes away again, like sunset, into colors.
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