The faces drift, two — yet not two — soft silhouettes woven from shadow and light, as if thought had grown a skin and turned to face itself. She, or perhaps they, exist not in time but in sensation: one gazing left, the other right, meeting somewhere in the quiet hush between beginnings and ends. Their outlines are not drawn but remembered, like the lingering scent of something beloved, half-vanished.
Above the brow — oh, how it pulses with the intricate lace of idea, wire, memory, the weightless gleam of glass and light spun together. Thoughts turned physical, tangible—delicate mechanisms blooming like clockwork flowers. It is not hair, no — it is cognition, ornamented. It is longing rendered in circuitry, desire in the shape of diodes. And all the while, the face remains still, velvet in shadow, lost in some inner monologue too soft to hear but somehow still known.
The image, silent as snow, hums with a strange intimacy — the kind that exists when one remembers someone not with words, but with sensation. Here is no mere portrait. It is consciousness dreaming of itself. A quiet duet of the self and the other, caught in the current of light.
