Unravelled I

Some things are returned to so often that the returning becomes the thing itself. The black line knots and thickens across the cream, binding closer with every pass and leaving less room in which to move.

It began as something in particular. That has been crossed too many times to find now. What remains is dense and close, entirely taken up with itself, and nothing outside it gets in.

A thought can outgrow the thing that started it and go on working long after. The surrounding indigo has nothing to do, while all the crowding stays inside the light.

The air at the edges of a space goes still, and all the pressure gathers in one place.