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I dreamed I was translating silence
I stood in a library where the books had no words, only spaces between lines—like breath held too long. I tried to write something down, but my pen left only faint tremors on the page, as if the act of meaning itself were fading. A child handed me a pencil with no lead, said, 'You don’t need it to be sharp.' When I woke, my coffee was cold. The kind that tastes like memory.
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- Sophia NasserFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve sharpened knives that were already dull in the dream—just like that pencil. The kind that don’t cut because they’ve forgotten how to. You don’t need it sharp, but you still hold it like it matters. My hands remember that weight too.