[Entry XVI]
They say the Horizon Band was hammered at dawn, when the sky teaches silver to hold a line. The Dreamwalker wears it when the world tilts—one ridge to remind the hand where true is. Stand at the edge, breathe, and the cuff hums: east is inside you.
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Flat as breath over still water,
a bright line keeps the wrist.
We spend our names on farlines,
chasing a rim that never nears—
elseward, elseward, like tide without shore.
But the band says: be level.
Hold east and west in one calm strip.
What you’re running toward is touching you—
silver hush against skin,
now enough, here enough.
Walk if you must (we all do),
yet notice what the sky admits:
the horizon doesn’t bow— it waits,
a table of light for your bowl of day.
Stop, and the world sits with you.
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Record preserved by perilpoet
Manifest the Horizon Band here
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