A storm riles the

shapeless expanse.

Empty silence kicks up

a cloud of dust,

amorphous, colorless, yet

visible to the shifting eyes of

the Nameless: one

who drifts about the elsewhere

stripped of their colors

and threatens to sink into

the deceptive comfort of

the nowhere.

There gather others lost:

some to rapid currents that bit back

relentless without reprieve

and stripped them of their own

shapes.

Others forsook their shapes

on their own.

For why would one scale the rapids

if it is easier just to float

comfortably,

effortlessly,

mindlessly.

The Nameless, too,

finds itself there

but as an ambassador

to the other lost still on the

right side of elsewhere.

It debates, however,

once at the edge of the river

where the current washes away

all one's colors and shapes,

whether it should dive in itself.

Then, by the riverbank,

it finds a small star.

The Nameless Voice approaches it.

It picks up the shining pearl

between hesitant fingers that

tremble.

A thought, it thinks to itself.

A musing, perhaps, worth a glance...