Context

A dream of flying.

Silver body crescented in the moonlight, dimpling the night sky like water. Concentric circles ensconcing planets and stars; I smile and tremble and

Look for direction, and there is relation of here, of me to dimples, dimples to planets, planets to stars; but there is no relation between, and that's what is perplexing.

So I slow and sit, back lit up by comets and dowsed in the infinity of space. Hands around knees, skin blue and white and silver in an exquisite pastel that could never be recreated because it only exists second to second and time

..time needs 'between' too, doesn't it. So there is a feeling of relation, of a slight pull that would suggest time, but I can't have time without space, can't have space without distance, can't have distance if I don't have between.

Which is their problem too. Zoom down or in or just din, into that corner downtown. Keep it upper right. Now that room upstairs, second story, end of the hall. Keep it lower left. Got it?
You can feel the pull yah? Which suggests a between but we don't know what it is yet, just a hint, a wisp, a suggestion that there is a connection, a between.

Corner downtown, you can see her gathering her stuff together for the night. Tarp over the shopping cart, two empty coffee cups with some spare change and some candle wax, cart rattling with empty cans; slightly muffled by the one piece of security she has in the world - her sleeping bag. She's down-alley now, off the corner and a little out of the wind, but the rain is starting and it's time to pull out the plastic tarp and settle in for the night and that's exactly what she does when an available space-beside-a-bin comes up.

Upstairs room, hot words under hot tears being written so hard on the journal paper that she breaks through the top page and bleeds into the pages below. Pain so pure, pulled by the writers spindle across the pages, hundreds and hundreds of words which, in retrospect are really only two ... fuck you fuck you fuck you. Feelings don't need to be validated, but let's be clear ... even the vitriol here is reasonable.

So what is the between ? Upper right, lower left. Their ages repel rather than pull together betweens; their lifestations and paths are not comparable, until we mine the undercurrent that put HER on the corner and HER in her own corner, rocking herself, nails digging so hard into her hand that she's drawing tiny beads of blood.

The between is the unspeakable that was foisted on both of them when they were too young and innocent to prevent it.

The between is IT; and now it's clear that IT is both the act as well as the label for what he is. His cannot be actions of a person; too amoral and destructive and without conscience for that.

Unless I look for IT's context; which I don't have the appetite to do.

Much better to stretch out from my dimple in the stars and continue my skipping along the surface of the Kosmos, and leave

context

for another day.