It is cold; but it is colder outside. I am wearing fingerless gloves to keep my hands warm. I haven’t had them long but they are already a little frayed. Like nerves, I suppose, or patience.
I suppose everything ends up frayed, in the end. By frayed I mean unravelled. By unravelled I mean dishevelled, like a stranger on the door step, like an old friend on the door step. Asking for help, they are indistinguishable from one another.
The threads that bind the world together are frayed. When even courage comes unwound there’s no choice left except to be afraid. But in order to be frayed first a connection must be made.
That which is unwound, once was bound, and still the world spins around. There is, as always, a slight wobble in her gait.
Good morning, Monday.
Michael Scott Hand 