It's this feeling - quelling up in the narrow passage way, blocking the motion of the passing fluids - that keeps coming back again. The indecision to move, to follow natural instinct - divided like a highway, each path leading in a separate direction. Lying here, head back, resting in the cool damp of morning, looking for a clearing; the answer comes and flees, flying on the winds like the white, dandelion seeds surrounding.
Pulling like a brick hanging from a string, the weight of vacillation spreading, concentrated on these single, quivering threads. Slowly, the fibers fraying, the taut isolation overwhelmed by its predecessor. Strong and steady from a distance, even unmoving. Close. Closer the inspector comes. Closer to view the truth -
tangibility, obscurity
