A storm riles the


    shapeless expanse.


    Empty silence kicks up


    a cloud of dust,


    amorphous, colorless, yet


    visible tothe shifting eyes of


    the Nameless: one


    who drifts about the elsewhere


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    and threatens to sink into


    the deceptive comfort of


    the nowhere.


    There gather others lost:


    some to rapid currents that bit back


    relentless without reprieve


    and stripped them of their own


    shapes.


    Others forsook their shapes


    on their own.


    For why would one scale the rapids


    if it is easier just to float


    comfortably,


    effortlessly,


    mindlessly.


    The Nameless, too,


    finds itself there


    but as an ambassador


    to the other lost still on the


    right side of elsewhere.


    It debates, however,


    once at the edge of the river


    where the current washes away


    all one''s colors and shapes,


    whether it should dive in itself.


    Then, by the riverbank,


    it finds a small star.


    The Nameless Voice approaches it.


    It picks up the shining pearl


    between hesitant fingers that


    tremble.


    A thought, it thinks to itself.


    A musing, perhaps, worth a glance...