Emptiness comes and goes. It sometimes falls across the text I am reading on the page of a book, and I fall into the text. I do not hasten to return.
Sometimes emptiness follows me as I walk down the stairs and overtakes me as I reach the last few steps. There is no bottom.
My mouth opens to receive food, and my lips close around the unformed void. There is nothing I would rather savor.
The path in my garden is becoming worn by the vibrant emptiness that accompanies me on my walks. My plants lean into my moving aura.
The skin of my hands passing through the air has become accustomed to the touch of the emptiness all around me.
There is only emptiness.