sometimes my world curls up on itself like a kitten or maybe that self-masticating serpent, and all the edges seem to line up, just barely tangential and tantalizingly close to rationality, tempting me with the idea of intimacy between extremes, the soft scent of contentment like a memory on the tip of my tongue, almost solid enough to believe in, almost ephemeral enough to be real. but it lasts a moment too long, divulges its secrets to my scrutiny, and the delicate, indelible lattice of thought becomes only a passing cloud, only another grey against the wide grey sky.