Always on the brink without ever overflowing.
Always waiting for it.
But the catalyst is late and we stagnate
in the present and sometimes the past.
Eating Finger-nails for lunch
and toe-nails for dinner
in anticipation of a meteor
or an epidemic
or an opportunity.
And back to my cob-web bed under a blanket of dust
in a bunker
from a deck of playing cards.
Back to the static and the arbitrary numbers.
Back to a broken microscope
to follow fractals dance down the rabbit-hole.