Threads are scattered across my lap. How long have I lain cross this table? Tic Tic the Clock in the back of my head - and the table rocks. Threads. Thread... bare in my hands. The original tie -in. Like a macramé hanging - in its unformed state yet frayed from sliding fingers. And the time. Ceasing. Unceasing. I relent. the hands, the pen, the plug. Toc Toc the Clock. Stand - and the threads scatter Across the floor. Shelley Rae Bell
