Broken shafts of green show where they left the path, a trail of silt stirred, the startled eye of something that sought cover, crouching now in the dusk of the leafage. Listening. It wasn’t long that they wandered, it would seem that they must still be near, unless they rest, unless they are so swift. Silence. The eye traces the arc that was, that must have been through the world, it breaks into strands that shred and break the weave. Catching this breath words that might have erupted electric are held, perhaps fated with abandonment, some like jewels will be secreted away, saved for when the paths reunite, for when the wires are rewound. Such is the passage here, each step becomes a signal, the soft destruction of undergrowth gone awry alerts the circle, invites catastrophe or the insanity of joy. Shuffling onward, reckless hands reach out and carress the invisible walls of a home that encompasses all in a myriad dance of collisions. Like insects swarming according to some primitive rational. It has never ended, it has never requested, it’s script untangles and dissolves.
One rule. Have sound reasoning for when you can’t be nice.
With questions write to erhoades@tenminutecup.org
