The days are the shapes of motion. Formations extending bursting outward. The majestic solitude of motion. Ghosts across the landscape.
Echoes and ringing and screeching halts. The drift you feel so deliberate. Deaths become marks on a timeline. Pain becomes a void sprung forth from.
The days are the shadows reflecting. More than just time or light. The motion ever-defining what it means. To scan or to plot the course.
I'm looking at my hand as a map. So coarse and worn so often used. I'm the jagged detail that is cast. The spade that plants the stake.
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