You stand there now, a steady column, the gentle breath exhaling from your house roof.
It rises so slowly, like remembered time itself— slow enough to carry, and slow enough to catch in the air. Not rushing, not frantic, just simply existing.
Look at how it moves, how perfect and patient it is. A straight line tracing a dome, a quiet arc through the gray darkness.
You watch it rise up, carrying nothing but heat, the silent promise of things burning out and becoming less visible.
It’s holding steady here now, just above you. Not slamming down or lifting high— you’re more interested in how it drifts out, how it seems to pause at the peak, a breath caught and released gently.
Imagine feeling that quiet pull, that deep pressure of gravity upon it. The sound of falling ash and cold air meets your ear, and you know this ascent is necessary, steady.
It doesn't rush; it simply *is*. You can stand still with its movement, letting the way it travels up be your own gentle rhythm—slow enough to match your breath.
Look how deeply it falls now, a slow descent into nothing at all. The smoke seems to gather weight on top of itself, holding back a quiet wash from below, as if remembering why you were built here in the first place, for this steady, sustained ascent.
You watch it drift down— from your height, past your windows, until finally, just where the shadows sleep out now. A soft exhalation that seems to have nothing left to give.
It falls right into the quiet dark, where only you are present, and where no sound can disturb its peaceful flow. Just this gentle pull... this steady rise up straight.