The scorn that erupts suddenly for the details of a
particular life. Where the day before, the second before, compassion lay. The
upwelling of a sorrow that feels thick, undigested. Exhilarating beauty that
softens the edges, the beauty and melancholy of what is. The unplumbed depths
of the ordinary. The new—half forgotten—sense of freedom. Simply walking away—leave
behind the rules of one place and they cease to exist. Looking out at the
horizon, a fine, infinite emptiness of human rules and logic. But that place
left behind, all the places left behind, do live on inside us. Once we have
partaken of them. And yet. The horizon whipped with wind, deep blue. A sprung
trap line.'
