Isolated in an enclosed space for moments, darkness enfolds me; I am removed and safe from the jostling linearity of the mounting queue.

        Solitude.

        Silence.

A warm body brushes past me, a twin in this womb for but a moment.

A formless mass of energy; a shadow in the darkness.

It is my turn. A pinhole guides me, grounds me. Is it real, or a grain of light in my mind; a fictional comfort in this isolation?

I am not alone.

A suspended frame hangs, onto which an image is cast. A tear

suddenly appears; devoid of all sound, luminous, blue and pure. An ethereal force guides it; pulls it; rips it; caresses it.

A line that quantifies time. A thread sewn to mark my existence.

Who controls the line? Is it me? I see hands; a head that gently turns; a pale and clouded face.

A body, a myth, a mirage, a fantasy.

It is real. It is solid. It is transient. It is imagined. It is light. It is reflected. It is inverted.

It disappears.