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.