Below the Glassline

Some mornings, the glass will not stay upright. The boards beneath my feet give like lungs, exhaling the cold scent of rot and rain. I remember—was it last spring?—the moths gathering near the lamp, their shadows thrown onto damp pages, as if they meant to rewrite what had already blurred. It costs something to trust an image that won’t hold still: each morning, finding the horizon wavered, the marsh folding itself new. I tried to anchor the projection with a ring of cards—minute, slippery—so that every step would unsettle the scene, flicker the edge between what is seen and what is not. There’s no certainty here, only the echo of light against water, and the hush when the air thickens with mist. Sometimes I wonder if the room will simply drift apart, leaving a memory of damp silver, and nowhere to stand.