Sunken into the cracks, there is possibility.
You glance inside the refrigerator, and for a moment your eyes catch a mixture of words… for a moment, you think you see him. His name. There, under the crisper.
Thistle.
He’s a hint. A mirage. A mere shadow of himself. Or is it a clear shadow? He exists in the possibility to exist. In between the space. Of proton and electron. Of known and unknown. Of black and white.
You’ve got to figure it out for yourself. It’s personal. A one to one relationship.
Peace is an inside job.
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