Casual hands fill the void between
the eventual start and the beginning
of desired direction.
We are pieces of land, scattered at the
base of gravity. Colored in sections,
strong with desire, sensitive to growth.
We are casualties of all sizes, knocking
at doors, attempting the great things by
overcoming the loss.
We are the memory of a thousand diaries;
words and paper try the story.
We see a sky void of clouds. Something
warns us to prepare, to stand fast as
instinct takes over thought.