Crawling- forever slowly toward the womb, thickets of torper block our path, so we drudge through the thorns- to perception. Struggling- blindly- with Fate and Time, often strangled by hands of chance(and clocks) all the while kicking against together. Breathing- faint thin air of substance, a stillness reveals the feeble wheezing of removal, and between our breath and the Hope of real- lies the gray idea of a phantom.