2024-06-07 - here and now and then and thus |1.4|

The egg is middling, both in size and in colour. Not a perfect middle point between the largest eggs and the smallest, but almost deliberately average - if eggs could be deliberate. Its shell is uneven, rippled with small bumps and ridges, and it sits at a lean no matter how much its mother turns and readjusts it.

It is grey. Many greys, really - the soft, pale grey of morning mist, and the dense solidity of fog over water, and the shadowed murk of looming rain-clouds. These all move across the shell in currents and patches, combining with the pebbled texture to give the illusion of motion and greater depth. There might be something shifting and moving within those cloudy swirls - or perhaps nothing at all. The fog billows on regardless.

Of presence, one can say little; it is neither bold enough to be welcoming nor bright enough to draw the eye. It remains stoic and stubbornly diffuse, as if truly hidden in the veil swathing its shell. If there is an active mind within, it is very, very quiet.