this pause begins to take shape in my mind— long and warm with damp brown edges — it must’ve fallen in a puddle somewhere beneath your window outside your bedroom. perhaps, this pause is half a dozen bottles sunken in a bathtub full of blank notes. or, a shadow meandering down a velvet highway at midnight seeking revenge. or, a figure revisiting a conjecture over a ruptured bridge overlooking nothing, but an estranged space on a blank screen. or, this pause is existence.