Entangled in the ball of thread are remnants of your hair. In the terror of these last days, I have followed the thread as it tumbles down impossible staircases, alleyways, tumbling down dank tunnels that wind deeper and deeper beneath the city. Now it is so dark I cannot see anything but the faint glow of the string at my feet. It unravels before me rapidly, as if it is impatient, pause sand gleams brighter when I am tired as if to spur me on.

I turn around and see my life is one enigma, each day too short to begin anything.

I realize that it is this that I have wanted: this dizzying plunge, this chase, this motion.

The arc of your dive---I am finally tracing it with my own descent.

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