The dance, from one dance to the next dance, circling around itself as generations abide on the edges, gazing into the circle of what cannot change and not ever end.
I said, "I dreamed last night of an inchworm measuring the distance of our suffering." She said, "Distance times time equals the speed at which things fall apart." I asked, "Do you think creation could have been made any other way?" She answered, "In the space we inhabit change only happens at the edge of where chaos and order frolic." I asked another question, "Don't take this the wrong way but can I have the next dance?" She replied, "Only if you fondly promise to promenade with me all the way down the corridor of time."