extrusion

Today was like a line casting out and reeling in. I moved away and came back at the same time.

Lines were everywhere: the highway, the snow on the mountains, the yarn, the wire, the paper. All of them shifting dimensions and scale, wrapping around each other. I let some of them unroll on their own; others needed help.

The vine is a grown line. It is writing, linked arms in dance, a thread to the memory of a greenhouse, a garden, and a walk down the middle of unlit roads.