The mud, freshly disturbed around my shivering feet, is holding me down, hands of logic pinning me to this moment. I wallow on through time, a nomad of the impossible, rejected by the Present and fleeing into the Past. Through this battlefield I am propelling myself into who I used to be, and I am doing it alone. My friends are gone, and my friends won't come.

The vortex is haunting, and my eyes are unable to focus. I see myself through an encircling camera, staring forward; lips slightly parted in pain, eyes glimmering and long, red hair swirling around me. I am frozen in this quicksand, right knee forward and bent, as if about to lunge. My corresponding hand is outstretched, sparkling in the light of rebellion. I am trying to reach you, but I can't quite make it.

I have reached the moment; the darkness before the dawn. My trumpet is lost in the hustle of Jericho.

I have slowed at the brick wall separating the yearning from the goal. You are too far away from me, and you expect too much of me. Surely I cannot return?

No.

The dawn is what I have just run from. The Future is my calling. Its arms are outspread and its long, elegant fingers are curling, beckoning me in. My shelter awaits.

And I'm sure I'll see you there.

This infinite nonentity disintegrates around me, and the Present cushions my fall. Beams of sunlight sparkle in my eyes and my hair has fallen to my shoulders. I am summer like a bird singing amongst the sycamores.

The universe is my allotment, and the world is my plant. Once I grew thorns, and I tried to walk over these thorns to return to the scarlet tulips. Now I plant these tulips for the Future. To walk backwards is to be disorientated and confused. To look forwards is to see clearly.

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