The passage thinned little by little, retracting beneath my steps like a thread unwinding in reverse, and I suddenly felt the strange sensation that the world, in a discreet yet implacable whim, was deciding to no longer offer me ground, as if moving forward had become a fault, a gesture too many, an insistence that space itself now refused to welcome.
As if, this time, it was the world imposing the stop. Not out of cruelty, but out of saturation. As if it could no longer absorb what I was becoming.
The material changed beneath my steps, becoming finer, more elongated, almost woven — no longer a stable ground, but a succession of living, organic cables, like stretched nerves or exposed veins, knotted between two arches suspended in the void, barely swayed by a breath I could not feel, as if I were walking on a narrow thread stretched between two breaths of the world, between two hesitations of the air itself.
