“so then another minute yet/

Again and again they manage to cut my rope.”

-Rilke.

And how can we rely on breathing to get us through the day? One step in front of the other? Lined-up tasks, to be worked through and checked off? Leading to what – ? Home, darkness, restlessness, the bed? With its sleep that doesn’t come and a morning that comes too soon.

What is it we’re hoping for in the interim moments? How would we articulate unspoken thoughts that would devastate with their edges, words meant to scissor through the fabric of waiting waiting waiting – yet there is no language for these words yet?