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There's a theory - inspired by quantum mechanics - that states that every possibility is realised as an actuality in a world not too dissimilar to ours, save for the providence of chance and that, across those multiple worlds, our doppelgängers sometimes hesitate to think upon their other's each others' as if it were their own.

Not too late

Late evening sun of chance breaks radiating bright finger shafts of saffron stigmata staining walls through blinds and, looking beyond, the bruised purple clouds of recent wet pours on sated earth and taste of salt in mouth and muted call of bird song before rest.

One born every minute

Protean. An entity yet unformed by the wholeness of self-actualisation though action; through purpose. Caught in the spooling reel of fractured dreamscapes; of portent and signifier without context; without the great overarching narrative; without the fixed point yet to arise over the horizon, breaking the flattening darkness of foreground and heralded by the winged chorus.

Lost

Night dark as slate, no chalk-white of moolnight and spangled span of stars upon which to draw cartographies and cold permeating bone with slow-creep of necromancing vines. Desensitising sent of forest pine disinfecting senses. Distance notional and afraid of circles. Turning in yet resit falling inwards towards centripetal swirl of inner concerns.