Without story written all at once,
He comes into this place by secret path:
Through lens of nets, from cloud of my thoughts,
From land of superhumans and snow odds.

He brings no doubt – just a notebook –
And takes arm-chair, with the calmest look,
By fireplace; and, when he speaks, the room
Does never tense; and proper tea is brewed.

He listens with no wait and rush to speak,
And failure he has courage to admit.
He thinks in numbers, seasons, doors and plans,
Ignoring shortcuts, titles in advance.

I linger at the window on the outside,
Observing silhouette in firelight.
I can’t take glance off; maybe, I won’t knock…
Let superhumans stay in my unwritten words.

January 2026