Indefinite is the answer. Neither full nor facing. I am out of ink, taken by the boldness and the death. A single sheet of paper rolled , could not stop the train of anxiety. I toss a smattering of coal into the flames. This could head someplace inevitable.
I would have broken down before then, hiding in the smoke and tunnels. Resting on the swithcbacks, you could see me derailed, as I conduct and bitch about broken ties, or stake my game into the ground and watch the sunset from flatly on the back.
In the dry grass the air crumbles and breaks apart in your hand. Where the slow slide of sand and rock rob the earth of elements. I am in the behind time. Where tears cannot collect from tissue, and become wrinkles on the face.
If instead we become passengers, looking for a while out the window, where the still-view can last forever, what do our worlds become?