forest clings to space and time wishes it was nothing else but soulful. The things we wished on are crashing. They are splitting wide with promises. Vague visions of future pedestals we stand on. These pedestals are here to be held and remembered in the deepest of sorrows and stronger men than us pull them apart while we close our eyes with glee. A stage never stays. Everything fades. Each segment tucked away in a cavity so deep and only brought to light by relation. We hold specks. Tiny specks. We blow them into the swirling air. We breathe the air. What we were becomes what we are. What we are becomes what we were and we blow specks again. Others breathe and what they are becomes what we were. Older generations driest of bones become cinders to fuel youthful fantasies that spring to the highest of towers and fall to the depths. The core heats and puffs. Smoldering. Mother scoops her hand into the bowl and sprinkles the dust on the expanse of saplings. They cough, then sprout suddenly. They bloom and shrink once again. Shuttles pulse back and forth with expansive motives. They hang themselves with work. They literally die. They plummet. They crash. We hold them between our index and thumb. We pin them to boards. We label and judge them. The winners become the blue ribbons we yearn for. We fall short. We crash. What we wished for made us what we have become.