In stop-motion, through a liminal space
a corridor of time without definition
Shuffling, herded by invisible hands
the creeping crawl across a blank ocean
from the mainland of experience
to the vagary of unknown islands

There’s no measure of the distance gone
or the length of journey still to travel
This formless, featureless landscape
drags and expands in all directions
The weak will wither, while others keep tallies
marking off the days that may have come and gone

We’ve got the hinterland blues
we’ve got the stain of January
all over our shoes
I’m setting future fires
I’m rueing past explosions
We’re ready for something to happen
Please, anything, come to me
and happen…