@Alther 27 July 2025 more from that month

Without title, without intention One morning that was not exactly bright, but it is not considered dark either, a kind of atmosphere was established, which could not be measured using common instruments - although in fact no one had ever tried to measure it, and there was no reason to. This atmosphere gently filled an uncertain room. It was not small, not particularly large. It existed in the way most spaces exist: with corners, edges, perhaps even a center - but none of these characteristics were clearly defined or even awakened by those that occasionally found themselves within it. Inside this room, the silence did not dominate, but the sound did not assert itself either. There was a presence of absence, or perhaps an absence that forgot to leave. It was a kind of intermediate condition - not too quiet, not very moving - where things have not started or ended. One person was sitting in a chair, not involved in anything specific. He was not working, not resting, not thinking, but also not doing any of these things. His eyes were directed somewhere, to nothing in particular. There was no purpose to focus, but the focus remained something that simply remained a long time without reason. In the opposite corner, one thing - not clearly a table, or a box - existed simply as a form. It is not useful, but not useless. It was there, or arrived, or always was. No one deliberately noticed, but somehow everyone felt that it was part of the room's history, even if no story was being told. His presence meant nothing, but removing it would probably mean even less. Time has passed, though not visibly. The room did not contain watches and, even if it did, the hands may not have moved. However, time has passed, or was doing it - perhaps one moment not worthy of note to the other. It was not clear whether there was a start to the day or if the end had already happened in a way that no one observed. The passage of time was neither well -nor undesirable. It simply was, the way the most unnoticed things are. Nothing happened. This was perhaps the most remarkable event of all. And even when nothing continued to unfold without fanfare, without announcement, the room did not change. The person in the chair continued not to do what he was not doing before. The air did not change, nor remained. The silence did not deepen, but it did not disappear either. And in the end - if it could be called this - what remained was precisely what it always was: a moment extended at other times, without direction, but present, meaningless, but occurring. Nothing needed to be explained, and nothing was. The room, the man, the shape and the time - they were simply. And that was all that was for that. Or maybe, not even that.