He occupied the space by stepping into it. It was an ordinary place in time and history, but for this moment, everything was clear. It felt like a slow motion dream where movement is underwater. He stopped, and realized that this was clarity. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he thought someone might be standing behind. This was a moment.

Stuck in time and history, an individual being has the power to present an outlet, a joint of movement, an alternative. This being had no preconceived notion of the wonder of it all, but knew an answer must be available. Poor soul.

In this moment he stopped and heard a "Thwahp-hit, Thwahp-hit, Thwahp-hit…" within his inner ear. It was the sound of choppers buzzing over the coconut trees in Vietnam. This was a reminder of his father and his soul leached the opportunity. He stood tall and shouted. He crawled on his knees, then cried.

Facing fears is never an easy endeavor, it tries and prods the soul needlessly, a farce of life. The soul in these brief moments of clarity stretches skin for escape. The soul is an egg swallowed by a snake. Whole, yet enveloped and stretching the stomach into Daliesque form.

She slept on the too soft bed and sighed with dream. The night was too humid while beads of sweat grew upon her earlobes. Her beauty was simple. Brown eyes behind shield of lid and interlocking eyelash, this essence is desire. Desire stands alone.

Until you make a move.

He was stuck in this moment and considered the obscurity of moving. Heavy limb and virtue contained him and he was left in a reflection. He stared contently and sighed with a warm yearning. Then he tried to move again, then failed.

When movement came, it was too late. It lingered. Its core was rotten, old. He moved just the same and found home eventually. Her image remained and he fought to forget. It was easier this way. He went on, astonished that he remembered while trying not to.

Later, when he became together again, he laughed a hearty chuckle of bliss and knowledge. He understood process and followed the clues. This was faith and truth. This was the end of means. Arriving doesn't mean you have to stay, but when things are swell it's smart to dawdle.

In Poland, and Cambodia, he walked though atrocity, and smelled historic death. He only remembered tiny sparrows in these places. They flapped and twittered between sky and walls, free but contained by the souls they represented. He thought how easy it would be if they were two sparrows, nesting in a hole where a chain once stood, attached to a body burning for escape.

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