nothingness
A hand, unfurled. Held palm-up in the air. Open. Another, next-door, palm facing the floor. Away. Go. No.
Something in the night sky. Unable to see its expanse, as it keeps a tightly-sealed tupperware lid on the view from down here. Mustn’t get too carried away, now.
It is all achingly the same. Down to the last molecule left at the hardened fingertip I truely believed was soft. Washing hands in turpetine in place of soap to stop your thoughts transferring by the touch of our hands, smooth on smooth.
The simple acts of being, of dreaming, of thinking, set your mind as free as you wish, to ascend or descend to those places, as you wish to be.
A whilrwind that has constantly slowed and is now no more than a small drop from a cloud, wrought out a thousand miles from the surface of the earth.
When was the last time we spoke? When did I last hear that crunch in the voice, that nervousness, those worries? Can we throw our ideas at each other once more, and come up with the sum total of nothing?
Years pass, people change.
We still enjoy our nothing.
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