Way Station

Exiting the threshold, covered in fresh autumn air.

The Feeling of a journey paused but not ended. Pulled away from the greener pastures and told it was just a lie.

 Struggling to stay still under a moving surface, to fast to catch every shape, the image of a spinning wheel turning over inside the mind. 

To stop it completely would be a wonder, an impossible thing made possible.

Will it be forced reality or the way station among the lost until time becomes relevant again?

Only time knows the truth. 

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