The threshold of possibility curves its path along the edging and it hovers hopefully yet. Yesterday’s attempt at pitching on a steep camber, an idiosyncratic act perhaps, lingers still slighted. Fragments seep across the ground and unknown traces sometimes frighten with their intensities. Held in this moment, in this space between lives the strangeness of their distance sits heavily between them,  and the fear of finality bequeaths the inner truth its gradual release. It folds away: archive of a prolonged moment.