The hoops are on fire, the Jumper's made of water.

He followed the path down, back up, down again.

Pacing, he thought. Well, at least I'm not standing still.

And it was a good thing too. If he had been, he would have never kicked up any dust, pulled it into his dry mouth, coughed. Now his throat was clear, but water was a neccesity.

He went up again.

***

This is a great example of something that is going nowhere.

Odd that I should put it on display.

Odd that I should take this moment, and drag it out in a very literal sense.

As a writer, I feel that it is my duty to expose myself, perhaps for the comfort of others or perhaps for my own. It's hard to be sure and it's harder to figure out precisely why I write. Maybe it's just something I do, something that rolls off my fingertips, fresh from my mind.

And the stimuli, where is that? Outside my flesh for sure, and as it makes it way into my vicinity, it filters through me, cuts me down, puts me back up.

That's when I realize that I should have gone to sleep a long time ago.

But instead, here I am, transcribing something that could, when finished, be devoid of meaning. The rhyme and reason cut up with the kid scissors, and glued back together in exaclty the wrong way.

If there is such a way.

***

He never learned to stop pacing.

He never learned to replace the pretend with real, in fact the two are frequently confused.

His mentors couldn't be more pleased.

***

It's not like I've lost my mind. My mind is doing fine, thank you very much.

I sort of dig the misfiring.