Heel Drags

Like the chalk drag across a board, those dusty trails echoing through space - I can't help but become intrigued by the texture, the wealth of the parallel.

The ignorance of us.

If nothing is permanent, then the lines of the parallel must touch, eventually, right? It feels like the architecture of my veins don't cut off, don't end at the smooth barrier of the skin, but run and run; a blueprint of my future. A tale already told.

I follow these ideological traces like a bloodhound, whose sense of smell is deteriorating. They say the sense of smell is a sign of danger. But do they also say time is an imaginary lover in the face of entropy?

Floating here, in space, it becomes hard to make a connection. I can look at these parallel lines that I have drawn and ponder them until my very particles become re-absorbed into them. Like a frieze on that Grecian Urn. Maybe it has already happened.

What are the lines? Time and us? Life and Death? Humans and other life? You and I?

It feels like my life has been dedicated to solving these lines. Knowing if and when these eventually touch.