Borrowed Flicker Remains

I remember the summer the heat would not leave, how each pane of glass became its own weather—an argument between condensation and memory. I wanted to see what would happen if I invited living light into the image, but the fireflies resist arrangement. They land wherever longing points them, marking moments that dissolve if I try too hard to hold them. Sometimes, when the blue hour lengthens, a figure walks out of the frame and does not look back: only the echo remains, a shape behind vapor and wing-shimmer. I watch as the projection unravels, the code surrenders to the trembling—each flicker a refusal to be pinned down. People ask where the subject has gone. I can only say: the air was very still, and yet everything drifted. What was left cost nothing, and everything. The meaning is whatever you glimpse before it fades.