1,1 (copying Rilke)

I grip this corner with my pinchers
There is nothing else to hold
Release little paper climber!
Fall from the high rise into nothing,
Which is really something, just other.

The train rolls ahead, as I lean into the direction of the old. Being pulled back to the new.
Excitement awaits, just with less history.
I reach my arms inside and to the tertium quid.

The unknown is my deep well that I reach into.