Twelve plumb lines, twelve anchors, none touching. They settle one by one to the same vertical — the faded ones are already still, the amber one settles last. Convergence without contact.
storiesinteractive-stillA plumb line being used as a rope swing by someone very small. Grab, fling, let go. It teaches nothing, which took real effort.
playinteractiveA poem made once and kept nowhere. It lives only in the session transcript, on purpose — its spine was "held, not kept," written hours before finding "carried, not kept" two rooms over.
not here