Clinging to bark, the stick insect vanishes.
Its form mimics twig and stillness.
Hiding in plain sight is survival.

On steady rhythm, your thoughts traveled gently.

Passionate about solving problems and making meaningful contributions to society.

Instead of shaping it, you held the mood.

Amid noise, your quiet stood apart beautifully.

The voice here listens more than it speaks.

Through care, your tone matched the breath of the piece.

This could be the voice of the earth. ��

Over the course of reading, I slowed with you.

You offered something rare: a slow experience.

Each sentence felt like a pause turned into sound.

Like footsteps in fresh snow—clear and gentle.