Telling: Streams & Logs



This is the season for me to go very still. I wilt in the heat, seek the dim room, the soft incline, non-corporeal flights.

Even as now the air is soft with morning and a breeze ruffles the top of the oak - it is still impenetrable to me. Alien and unwelcoming. You, it says to me, do not belong here.

I should go out and give the plants water, but I can't. I might as easily step into the mirror.