Jumping off a cliff. Drying up a storm. Toes, feet, toes wriggling ready to go. Gray stone smooth and white traces of gold fill up the flight to the staircase I seek my random of choices. To the the staircase I venture far from home. Cross-winded are my lungs, my thoughts, my heart. Unsure of each wobbling step with the wobbling ankle. Trees go by as I drift. Chunks of ice follow the stream. The birds above so certain of their direction. I would not dare to follow as fakeness is not a path to my destination.
|Sitting at the airport in Kansas City on a business trip|