Nothing.

Blank.

Unwritten.

For now.

All that is seen is unreal. Or perhaps unrealized.

Shadows in the forefront of my forged habitat do not reflect the foreshadowing of my future.

Being so heavy on my heart, like an elevator car hanging wildly from my bruised shoulders.

Home.

The serene canvas that cradles the impetus of all my sudden impulses of comfort.

Now.

Trusted by the heart to hold itself, the frigid sound in the air surrounding, grips tighter than imagined.

Unable to catch a breath, but unable to fall out of reach.

Pushing up with hands, so much my own, they are hardly recognizable.

The world trembles while I stand.

On my knees, and as always, on my toes.

Balancing on the cracks in the Pavement as if I was but a child.

Alas.

For now, a child but I am.

Unwritten, a man.

Blank, a new canvas to count time.

Nothing, will stop me.

-A.B.