Content not to move, but spinning. Unraveled too far. Reveling in the misery. What misery?
Feel the walls closing in. The lives in my mind winding up by themselves. The depression like wings beating at my back.
The sun transforms all breath, all reflections ... the ground gaping, yawning, beaten and massaged. And why do I stand stark staring, unconnected from your gaze, yet still searching? It must be for something else.
Just a taste is never enough. These diversions feed the illusion of a clock winding down and perception is just a rope bridge swaying in the wilderness. Trickery is at play.
