Telegraph Wires Between One Woman's Thirst and Another's Drowning

A teabag becomes a ghost's lung, breathing underwater. Then another phantom exhales. Then another. See how they bloom across the glass like jellyfish trailing memories instead of tentacles, each one crowned with the black electricity of forgetting. This is the garden where the dead grow backwards—your DNA spiraling out instead of in, making constellations from what the body sheds in private. Your grandmother lives now in the space between water and leaf, in the pause before steeping becomes drowning.

Love is the archaeology of aftermath: you excavate used mornings, stitch shut the mouths that have already spoken their hunger. What falls from you in the shower becomes telegraph wire, each strand carrying messages you'll never decode. First one vessel, then three, then a whole fleet of paper boats sailing nowhere. Amber holds them like insects who mistook resin for air. Salt performs its small erasures while the stain persists beneath, a tattoo written in tannins.

What emerges refuses name or form—multiplying until even emptiness has children, until the hand surrenders and becomes pure reaching. The drawing remembers what the photograph dreamed: not the object but its fever, the way absence grows tentacles when you feed it your own body. Here is the blueprint for a country that exists only between sips, where citizenship requires you to swallow what someone else has already tasted. This is the infinite territory between one woman's thirst and another's drowning, where every border dissolves the moment you try to cross it.