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.'