She Goes, You Go

Everything is pure concentration now, a rigid mix of what you will and won't listen to. You are here and you are not: that's how cars and people move up and down the road. An artist is here, trying something she's never tried before, and trying really hard. And you're productively ignoring her. She's everywhere except at the tips of your fingers. So that is where you focus. That is your world now. You are mocking what it means to be real. With the side of your mind you love her, this artist. She works without your fear of death and you push your fingers deeper into the forest. Life without referents, the formless breath over water. You want your fingers to ignore you, along with the world, but you are only slipping out of focus.