Friday Fictioneers, July 26, 2013

Between you and me, of myriad conduits, the others.  We set out.  Toward.  Send messages made of signs and symbols, ripples, waves – our gestures.  We move.  Where we are.  It resonates.  When you touch down and look in my direction, molecules dither, there is some concord.  Generation. Gravitation.  I do not believe in “flow,” or that everything is One.  You set out, we are in relation.  Things pull, things press.  Hearing dribbles in the brain and puddles.  Echoes something else.  I am here.  I will be.  I set out.  Between the myriad conduits and air, water, fire.  We breathe.  We become a ground.  We register.

N Filbert 2013