Möbius Script

More about Möbius Script

The line refuses to end and so it learns to turn, a ribbon of thought folding back through its own breath, writing as it curves, curving as it writes, no margin to fall from, no first word to anchor it, only the soft insistence of continuation, where her red scarf loops like a sentence that remembers itself mid-utterance, a script without front or back, surface becoming underside becoming voice, and the dragonfly rests at the hinge of it all, a quiet punctuation that does not stop the flow but listens as the meaning circles, deepens, returns altered yet the same, until reading becomes drifting, and drifting becomes the only way to understand a language that never arrives, only persists, the line refuses to end and so it learns to turn