Gumdrops

A day slips through your fingers: you were ever the master procrastinator, perfectly poised to tiptoe around the fire in perpetuity. Hours while away into pretended necessities. A year lies behind you, a thousand pages lie behind you, how many times will you have to correct your trajectory? I went for a long run along the river, before the rain, the air so mild; I've been forgetting to trace my steps lately and yet every return to the starting line is a remedy. My body is unrecognizable lately, my mind covered in piles of confusion and my heart crumpled. But a tiny flame sits, still, in the deepest corner of my chest, carrying on unabated despite the wreckage around. It is guarded by a young girl at the edge of a cursor. She runs alongside me, says: every return to the starting line is a remedy. Correcting your trajectory is better than walking the line.

It is dancing it.