Some sort of solitary freezing. Some perfect in the dark, some fresh anger from the man.
There is a tomorrow I know. Today is an absent friend. It is tremors of pleasure that he seeks. I am through with motion as catalyst. I am inclined to still, supportive only of the rocks who soothe by reaching, reaching for sky and ice without edging on vibrate.
I am for the purpose of still. There is a greatness about the multiples. I am for no purpose but still.
The man often feels like alien. Part shadow, part child, I cannot help but feel that the prize at the end of this rope dangles on the end that I hold. Taught without tugging, an absence presents itself in the middle.