Running as mantra

Fine towering firs to the right, harried line separating saline from sand to the left. Rhythmic padding below, lids dropped down from above. What is looking is hemmed to the looked by a blood red sash.

Imminent immanence, or that big bastard ball of string again?

It tendril-ed my ankle 8 kms back; thought winding in and around itself, looking for cause and effect. Baleful perseveration gave the first knots before fractal-ing into *the* Not - the final negative bearing down on me and vacuuming the space between like so much forgotten seawall grit.

And then, silence.

Sound, feeling, breath and movement become not-two. The question of the big bastard giving chase dissolves. There is no resolution; it is simply fully and utterly irrelevant.

There is only This: Space between the footfall; moment before the breath; fine towering firs to the right, harried line separating saline from sand to the left. Rhythmic padding below, lids dropped down from above. What is looking is hemmed to the looked by a blood red sash.