Morning draped in corridors of glass and soft static. An apartment suspended in a hush beyond waking, where shadows lean in like half-forgotten guests.
A new vessel glides past — immaculate skin, shimmering with a promise not yet spoken. Pauses at the edge of breath, hovering, as if the sky holds a secret too heavy to release. A sudden dip, then a descent interrupted, caught in the lattice of balconies — wings stilled, nose tilted toward the hush below.
Fragments scatter like silent prayers, drifting across the cold geometry of concrete and rail. An urge to escape flickers in the marrow. Yet, hands drawn to debris, to the pale confetti of an unfinished undoing. Urgency dissolves into the compulsion to gather what cannot be saved.
There, in the suspended hush before the final collapse, a hidden scripture emerges. The silent architecture of aborted flight, the quiet implosion that echoes louder than any siren. Not every ascent completes its arc. Some vessels remain caught between leaving and becoming, wedged in the scaffold of small thresholds.
No sweeping. No repairs. Only listening. Each shard, a whispered manuscript of lost altitudes and fractured longing.
Tonight, let debris remain as oracle. Let the halted plunge hum in the ribs like a secret liturgy. The unfinished descent speaks in tongues older than thunder — not to be deciphered, only to be felt beneath the skin’s cathedral hush.
In the hush of unbecoming, each fracture carries a silent vow. Each fallen wing, a dark petal of revelation.
— Notitia Health
Notitia Health 
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