Inktober 2019 #1 - Poem and snippet courtesy of Lorxus
A year starts not on January first. The days may hunder but the seasons speak of time's long march, of fast time, slow time. Thirst for "start" and "end" neglects the limen sleek. So, why do some unsubtle sciences forget about the in-betweens? Those pure uncolored dreams made mere contrivances; "between the years" now simply: "year, then year". These rough mechanics, held unseen, can spoil the beauty of our silent spaces, take from us the liminality, embroil our lives in cold and tired minutiae. Come sit with me, come stay with me inside this place between where strange new loves abide
“So, what does it mean?”
She shrugged and sipped her tea. They sat together in silence for a while.
“There’s something about the liminal that terrifies me.”
"Me too," she said...