Sometimes I sit and stare; delving deeply towards the point of destined fixation.  I stop at the edge, waiting for the moment to hollow out; imagining the embrace of silence.  

Sometimes I feel the pull of refuge, leading me by the hand to the subterranean level.  A finger, placed upon my lips, to prevent the waves of random thoughts from contaminating the cure; breathing…the pressures slowly release beneath the fathoms.