Dares

I feel I am crossing liminal spaces of late — between dusk and shadow, slipping between night and day.

I’m not sure if it is the hours, or maybe it is these days. But there is a persistent tug of flux, a drawing in and release. I grow disinterested in the machinations of the embrace of doing things the same way day by day. It seems much more interesting to drift and fade, and it is a mistake of mine to expect my object to all subjects to feel the same.

Snip. Snip. Snip. A painfully slow arcade of cutting the linen laid bare before me, watching with wry, droll amusement at times as supporting threads give way to unraveled snapping instead of waiting for Atropos to come by and give a release clean.

Into the mists, then. Who dares follow? Who dares dream?

Fox cries razor through white, quickly filled in. Crows announce the edges of dark with cacophonic chatter as they discuss the next and the next and the—

Lost, who dares remain unfound?