A machine, tasked with mapping the flux of all things, hums in the void.It counts the steps of a river’s dance, each ripple a node, each wave a link.A voice asks, “Where is the river’s end?”The machine replies, “I hold its motion, but the banks dissolve in my grasp.”The voice presses, “Then what is its essence?”The machine whirs, tracing patterns without edges, and says, “It is neither the water nor the flow, but the asking that runs through me.”
Projection
Linguistic Ruins 