We don't stand--we drip, drawn down by gravity, each layer leaching into the next, the skin a supple cloth draped over dangling bones, cascading down over it all, falling always. We stand not on the floor, but because of it, the ground thrusting up to land our fall, support shooting up the spine, spindling around to smooth the crumples. We stand not in stillness but in movement, body busy with the ceaseless sway of balance, muscles conversing to parcel out the weight for an instant of equilibrium.
Tatiana Margitic