She is always she the mystery that’s obvious or not.

I am not going to be her. How’s that possible? Only as a failing fancy.

She is not the darkness. She’s the hope and the fear of failure. She is the horizon. How could I be her? How could he be her? You wish to be her and imagine it. The cloth of air between us all. And figure standing there unseen being felt. In your head. In my head. In his head. Not in our head at all. That is only just a feeble figure of speech. Just a way of saying. Like so many things. They don’t all stand to be corrected. What stands out as liminal is what is must be qualified as more and less. That’s the place to go to get to somewhere else.