A single sweat became rain and she was running towards herself. There was no mention of word, nor call, nor move; she went. Somehow, it lingered in her that she needed some air and all the space around her suddenly moved. The world was passing through her. All time can do was move. All she could do was move. So sudden she stopped. She called her dearest heart in earnest repair, but no blood would in part congeal. A warm bark of a tree can only warm her hand, and the swollen ground with ill-grass was all she could breathe. So high were her senses, and she moved. She didn’t know where; she moved.

Still searching, here and there, whether to gaze at her phone. Somehow she stopped and turned it off. She leapt from one world to the other. In one, she’s the nightingale in grace to conjure a fool in weeping song; another a wild woman with thoughts so mad and wrought she could not utter for words describe. So soon was it she had to return, but all she could ask was for time’s halt, but it would not. She moved. She did.

It seemed like she became a tree herself, except it was summer. Here she thought a new road was unforged, and only grass can cover her footsteps. Let lone her heart shall remain in the ground before she rescinds all comfort in the space alone. She’s still there. It is not she who passes through the world; it is the world that passes her by. All the people. All the animals. All clouds shall pass. Let time alone be an insult in presence hers, so now she sings in thought the life she is.

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