On my way out into the yard (always the yard) I slip over the threshold. Shoes slipped on subconsciously. Imprinted habits stored somewhere unknown. At the cliff below the lip of the threshold a pile of shoes and their rubbery texture break my fall but they’re in the way. They’re always in the way. A tangled bunch of laces, knots and, aglets so much complicated than my pair of flip flops. I consciously step on the pile. Maybe out of spite, anger. With this motion completed, I look down at my own shoes only to see that they’re on the wrong feet. Yet, as wrong as it may seem, I leave them as they are.