without return, there is no visable motion

such that a life is layed out in small peices. parcels. the moments strung together by memory. recollection. recounted. like how a bees tiny thighs carry the pockets of pollen that will make honey very slowely for us. how we don't ever hardly think of it, but how it's there. constantly. and the void that constant thought in no particular general direction, in an attempt at forgetting, only fills us up. w/ the underground buzzing. the faint murmur. makes us more anxoius. makes the days into weeks or months or three years, even. but makes minutes feel drawn & stretched out before us like the now unwoundtrails. tales. like the silkworms inching out from under the porch. each spindeling out a string, reaching the end, holding for a moment and then climbing back up. how she hated that. how we loved it. loved watching them work, turn, glisten & return home. if only our own paths glistened with such clarity.