You move from everything to everything, flashing across expanses of nothing.

Landing, standing on firm ground of particularity, blindness clings to your heels. The shadow you cast is perfect: nothing is there, and nothing is missing.

Then you leave, sealing time behind you. Wherever you have gone, once you leave, you were there all along. Only moving through your moments can preserve the befores and afters of your comings and goings. Travel, movement, comparison: this is your common sense.

As I travel, face me forward. Help me slip through the blinds and skim above or even beneath the churning chrome, turning neither toward lightness, nor toward darkness, nor around toward the entangling, dappled shade behind us.

Lead me to where doubt fails.