I undergo cycles of my life, probed by the rusty sharp interceptions of my decisions. Braking speed limit becomes rather a choice than an impulse, and destination has come clear. Focus requires speed and perspective begs for a stop, so the speed of an end makes me dizzy and I sweep for a backdoor.
Exit out of the new corner sheds light on my heels and it’s a dangerful field to be lost at. Here, where dots from old stitches reveal the light of the old parallels, movement comes naturally. If not this, it’s the next door.