Early in the morning, the glass doors to the little book shop are half open, as if expecting spring. You settle into a deep leather armchair, try to forget time. The gears of your imagination are rusty, too many years of illness and fear getting in the way of your ease. You think instead of road maps across the country, of tracing veins to some sort of heart beat, trying to find ease there instead, if it’ll have you.
A strange stillness sits across your brow. You don’t want to scare it away, try not to make any swift movements.
But maybe there’s more than stillness lying underneath. Maybe there’s more to life than surviving.
And you won’t find out until you dare to dig for it.
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