Light and darkness become one. The breath, in ceasing, becomes one with stillness. A body finally joins the emptiness, the space between lives. Every form of stopping, of dying, is a form of joining. Of returning.
The light always goes out. The breath hesitates, quiets. Nothing is clear, nothing is known -- except in its opposite. As wind is defined by the lull between susurrant bursts, whatever lives is made from the stillness and the dark.