transmigration

Prayer and Garage

The air shifts before the voice arrives. A tremble, then clarity. Low, resonant. Carved from breath and dust. The prayer drops into the bones of the garage— Stone and concrete holding it carefully, Passing it between pillars like a secret. No cars yet. No footsteps. Just the call moving through this hollow space As if speaking directly to the sleeping machines. You descend slowly, each level darker than the last. Lights flicker in time with syllables You don’t understand, but somehow obey. The voice is not urgent, But it does not ask permission either. It wakes what it touches. Even you. Somewhere above, the world prepares itself— Keys turn, birds stir, Someone forgets their dream mid-sentence. But down here, You are still. The voice finds you Like water finds the lowest place. And when you reach the bottom, There is no one. Only sound, And the soft echo of being known. They do not ask why you came. They do not look up. They just keep singing into the dark, Like you’ve always been here. Like the border never mattered.

1 sound

Tune and Cemetery

They’re sitting on benches by the Taloye Lake— Guitar slung loose, half a cigarette burning, Laughter low and generous. You wouldn’t know what year it is. Not from the way the notes drift upward, Not from the warmth in their voices. You walk through the cemetery as they play. It’s spring, maybe. The grass is soft and unbothered. Names from the old times drift past your feet Like old thoughts you forgot you once had. One voice cuts through—sharp, political. But no one flinches. They argue like it’s a sport, Like the stakes aren’t exile Or silence Or vanishing. The girl on the end tunes the guitar again, As if nothing’s at risk. As if you are all allowed to stay. You keep walking. You want to ask if they know This is where they bury memory. But they just nod at you, Calm, gentle, as usual Like you’ve always been here. Like the border never mattered.

1 sound

Meadow and Treetop

It takes a long time to notice the tallest things. Their movement is too slow, Too certain, Too far above to make demands. Somewhere between two breezes, A bird calls once— Then vanishes into a hush so deep it becomes green. The ground is soft with things that have fallen: Seed, husk, dream. Every blade of grass seems to remember A forest that once stood here— Not this one, But one far away, With trees older than speech. Light pours through the leaves In long, forgiving strands. The wind does not rush; It drifts sideways, As if searching for something it once touched A hemisphere ago. The canopy above is not visible, But you can feel it. Not shadow, but shelter. Not silence, but slow breathing. Somewhere, those giant trunks still stand, Holding up the sky. And down here, Something leans toward them, Listening. Nothing interrupts. Nothing names you. Only the hush of branches, Folding one time into another, One place into this place— Like you’ve always been here. Like the border never mattered.

1 sound

Cemetery and South Shore

The insects start first. Not loud—just insistent. A net of sound pulling itself across the trees. Somewhere far behind them, A train exhales. Not arriving. Not leaving. Just passing through. You walk along the outer edge of the cemetery. Here, the stones lean differently— Older, or maybe just more tired. The names are half-erased, As if time has politely asked them to fade. The buzzing rises in waves. It never stops. It only shifts—like thought, or longing.

You kneel near a crooked grave, Trace the outline of a name you can't read. A bee hovers. A crow laughs once. Everything moves, Even here. Especially here. No one tells you to go. No one asks who you are. The hum continues. The tracks are always just beyond the hill. They sing without destination, Like you’ve always been here. Like the border never mattered.

Prayer and Garage

The air shifts before the voice arrives. A tremble, then clarity. Low, resonant. Carved from breath and dust. The prayer drops into the bones of the garage— Stone and concrete holding it carefully, Passing it between pillars like a secret. No cars yet. No footsteps. Just the call moving through this hollow space As if speaking directly to the sleeping machines. You descend slowly, each level darker than the last. Lights flicker in time with syllables You don’t understand, but somehow obey. The voice is not urgent, But it does not ask permission either. It wakes what it touches. Even you. Somewhere above, the world prepares itself— Keys turn, birds stir, Someone forgets their dream mid-sentence. But down here, You are still. The voice finds you Like water finds the lowest place. And when you reach the bottom, There is no one. Only sound, And the soft echo of being known. They do not ask why you came. They do not look up. They just keep singing into the dark, Like you’ve always been here. Like the border never mattered.

1 sound