kieta ne by Phillip Wilkerson

The rain had been falling all afternoon.
Soft. Slow.
Not urgent.
Just inevitable.

He wandered in without thinking.
The gallery barely marked, a hush behind glass.
The sort of place you enter when there’s nowhere else to be.
A pause in the world.

His coat was wet.
Shoes soaked through.
The marble floor received him without welcome.
Without complaint.

He stopped in front of a painting.

It was a gray field.
A horizon that barely held.
A pale circle, moon, or sun, or memory.
Suspended in mist.

The texture uneven.
Streaked.
Something forgotten, trying to express itself.

He stood still. Watching. Listening.
Not for sound, but for what lives beneath the noise.

Then, beside him, another presence.
Not sudden.
Just there.
The way evening arrives before you notice.

She was dressed in black.
Rain glistening on her coat.
An umbrella in one hand.
Her hair, impossibly long, trailing behind her,
a river of inky blackness.

She didn’t look at him.
Only at the painting.

Together, they stood.

The moment stretched.
Quiet.
Unresolved.

He felt something shift.
Not in her.
Not in the room.
But in him.

As if a word he didn’t know had just been spoken, long ago.

Then she turned.
Only slightly.
Her eyes on the painting still.
Her voice soft enough to pass for thought:

“Kieta ne.”

She didn’t linger for a response.

She turned. Walked away.
Umbrella tapping once, a soft echo on the floor.

Gone.

He stood there.
The painting unchanged.
The pale disk still drifting.

But something now had shape.
The meaning lived in the space he'd left behind.

And the rain…

kept…

falling.

Phillip Wilkerson creates contemplative atmospheres, immersive drones, and experimental soundscapes shaped by lo-fi evanescence. From serene and breathing to richly layered and emotionally weathered, his music invites the listener into spacious realms of introspection and quiet transformation.

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