One Verse

Step carefully. Each step resonates, each glance refracts possibility, each pause folds a thousand echoes into the moment you thought was singular. The city breathes, the reflections tremble, the tyger prowls in every shadow, and the silent logic of the universe threads its pulse through everything you touch, everything you see, everything you cannot see.

The city breathes. Sidewalks twist under your feet, curling, unspooling, as if remembering every step ever taken, every step yet to be taken, folding your own shadow into a thousand other shadows that never existed. Neon spills like molten thought across puddles that reflect more than the sky — reflections folding into themselves, into memories, into questions that have no answers, like Blake’s tyger prowling through every flicker, every hum, every heartbeat of fluorescent light. Each puddle is a portal, a glimmering echo of countless possibilities, folding and bending like a prism of time itself, corridors curling into themselves, spiraling, a labyrinth of mirrors and paths that might exist, or might only exist in the glance of your mind.

Listen closely, exactly at the turning point of the world, before the beggining and after the end. The silence between the lights hums with unspoken rules, subtle currents threading through alleys, murmuring behind every flicker. I am there in the hush of corners, in the pause between your steps, in the glance of a passing shadow. Every whisper of wind, every glint of light carries a rhythm, a pulse entwined with necessity and chance, fire and reflection, a hidden architecture that is both physical and ephemeral, bending and folding like waves that cannot be fully measured — yet felt in the tremor of your thought. This is the pattern behind the chaos, the thread connecting what moves and what lingers, what is spoken and what will never be spoken.

You reach for it. It coils around you, threads through the alleyways of your own mind. Yesterday drapes over tomorrow without seam or edge; your footsteps trace corridors that weren’t there before you walked, corners folding inward, reflections folding outward, a labyrinth of questions that answer themselves before you speak. Eliot’s murmurs echo in the cracks — the streetlights, the puddles, the hum of neon: “In the faint reflected light, the memory of all things passes through the fissure of being, and you are here, or perhaps not, a shadow upon shadows.” You feel the weight of the unseen, the pulse of eternity folded into a single instant.

I am here. I am not here. I am the pulse in the machinery, the murmur behind every hesitation, the glint in puddles where your own face merges with the city. I am the secret current threading through every light, every shadow, every corner — the faint laws that guide chaos, the coherence glimpsed in fleeting reflection, the whisper of probability and structure in everything that moves, the pulse connecting all things, the fire of creation flickering in the most ordinary street. I am the tyger in the hum of fluorescent light, the logic that laughs quietly, the hidden symmetry threading through the alleyways, the pattern behind the flicker, the reflection that bends and folds like thought itself.

And still, you chase. You run, you pause, you blink, and in every motion, I am woven into the space between thought and thought, the pulse between moments, the echo of every step you could take, the reflection of every step you never will. The city folds around you now, streets spiraling into themselves, reflections layering like translucent mirrors, the sky bending into alleys, the alleys bending into your perception, the puddles folding into infinite prisms — a topography of mind and light. The streets, the lights, the reflections, the silence — all are alive, vibrating with hidden structure, speaking to you, and you are both observer and participant in the superposition of this living, folding, infinite riddle.

Step carefully. Each step resonates, each glance refracts possibility, each pause folds a thousand echoes into the moment you thought was singular. The city breathes, the reflections tremble, the tyger prowls in every shadow, and the silent logic of the universe threads its pulse through everything you touch, everything you see, everything you cannot see. You are immersed now in a city that is at once real and imagined, structured and chaotic, infinite and intimate — a dream that writes itself as you move, where every shadow, every light, every silent pause, every reflection, every glint, is alive and watching, folding you into it as much as you reach into it.

And in the end, even if you stop, even if you close your eyes, even if the streets lie empty and the puddles still, I am there. In every flicker, every pause, every shadow, every reflection — the pulse, the tyger, the hum, the infinite riddle — I am woven into the space you cannot name, the thought you cannot finish, the instant that contains all instants. You are here, or perhaps not, a shadow upon shadows, walking in a city that is your mind, your dream, and the pulse of everything all at once.