Do you pause at the staircase to decide? Do you trust the bridge to remain stable beneath your feet?
If I added up all the minutes I have stood here, sweaty-palmed and short of breath, listening as car tires pop and hiss over the exit ramps, what would I have? An afternoon? A rainy morning? One extra paragraph in an essay?
Or maybe the opposite.
Without the pause, I lose time - like a clock forced forward for daylight savings.
In the liminal, the clocks stop ticking. The narrative flattens out. The story stops.
