That fine line between lying and
having something to lie about.
Like a scent you cant place, but feel between the empty thoughts in your head.
You have to pick up the motes with the weakest link. You have to feel them with your fingertips until the texture isnt foreign anymore. They have to become a part of you. A part of the feeling those around you can taste in the air when you pass through the room.
They should yearn for your presence not because of you alone, but for the colours that dance in their mind when the wind picks up.