Art and Writing from the world Part V (Dancing for a spot in your time)

Running accomplishment, stimulation coming from both sides as I scrape my hands along this palisade, along this fortress.

I wear what the sprite of time has woven for me, it is my garment, it is my vessel, my bucket, barrel and bin; it holds me and my belongings as it saves me down this tunnel.

But I sparkle, I dance, it is not prison but animation. Hands lifted and a toe tap for each approach, each day and each moment; even my suspense is music now.

The rope begins to swirl, the bucket is cracking and my cheek smears along the blanket, what happens when there is no more expectation?


Snap, release, fall... and then?