Towards the end of the day we play separate particles, blend into the horizon, suspend in a circle of disbelief, unbended in a boundary of surfaces.
We, in our way, ground tension, swab away hushed demands: three drops and a benign sweep across the assay.
Can an honest solution upend hope, grind down the nervousness, the loss of record, of hair, of years?
A moment incites a march towards a simple bounding line, a control to the day ended, an end point to an unsuitable rush, and the quick wick of bloodline.