It is Sunday. I can't make heads or tails of it. Pebble in a gourd, this hollowed place. I am unfit for the unfurl. I am small and tight and rattling. A soldier on the march. The comfort of order and motion. The momentum of my forward plunge is all i have to give. May I step true. May I cross the distance that needs crossing. May I arrive at the borderlands of breathing out and breathing in. May I ask and feel myself answered.
Telling: Streams & Logs