I thought I was chasing the baiting, swelling, blossoming taste of a half-remembered zest – one that continued to burst in my mouth like blood at the slightest touch and after the longest crawl.
Stillness causes the skies to open, stretching wider and wider in proportion to my wandering eyes, which grew more used to turning inward than seeking out new stanzas – my ears more used to concocting their own babbling manifestos than cocking at the ready for a shout.
Again, I say, I know it now. Again, I know I lie to myself. At last, I have realized that the lesson cannot be learnt unless the defect be drawn out, through some act of cunning, and shamed in all its waifish winsome in the glare of the sun, which declares that my shadow can only fall in one place.
Yet I let it go. It knows me too well.