An imprint of a previous movement. The offcuts by the wayside. A resuscitated body or an unpaused play. The markings in the margins. Bound beginnings, A transcript of hearsay, the diary of ghosts.

When you’re allowed to hear the echo, (and only the echo) but never the rebel’s true voice: use a larger sieve, retrace your steps, weigh and measure twice. Not for precision but to loosen the noose. Then we could share this basic set of eyes, momentarily. Fragments drafted for a sudden assembly. Rushed, but finally agreeing on what has always been here: a gesture, its shadow, this gathering.