A whole life lost. A life like running alongside a car you’ve fallen out of. The whack of fingers against searing sunlit metal as you try to scramble back in. The memory of the feel of brakes under sneakered feet. The attempt to console yourself by remembering the native tribes’ veneration of running. The continued jarring of the fleeing surface.
A roadblock looms and you know that you and the car will unite in it, blood leaking into oil. Then you do resolve. You tell yourself what you know.
I don’t get the answer if I don’t ask the question.
An idea is good to use, even if I don’t use it.
I keep scrap paper for a reason.
You never think to let the possessed thing roll away, explode, use the smoke to guide you as you turn your back on it and find a horse, a bicycle, a breath. You manage to multiply the footfalls before exploding through that barrier and projecting yourself beyond.
You have only a mild curiosity anent footfalls or what they fall on on the other side. You try hard not to consider that there may be no fall for the foot over there.