When the line is loose all bets are off and somewhere the voices and somehow the insignificant details start to glow. The wind that felled the tree never seemed like felling me but I crumble and crumble and only hope for the world to turn. To begin, a word is a bold assertion of time and purpose and love and being with or without yet somehow I struggle to decide what to eat and when to care. I strip it all back and every day I strip it all back to find guilt and shame and history. I have no eye for detail or colour or position or numbers or social niceties. I lie. For a time and round deep and background noise I play ball and laugh and nod and hit every note. The move is step and step and turn and turn up the volume. Hold your own, throw a ball, let your chest swell, make your mark, fill your lungs. The list is the shortest point between a and being someone else so I fold myself in to take up less space because already the world is too full of chatter.