Blast

The holes have almost left the sky and the blanks the paths—the patches next to natural, corroborated by the incidental sounds of practical activities and crows, themselves exhibiting many of the earmarks of the actual. This must have happened many times before, we must suppose. Almost a pulse if we could speed it up: the repeated seeking of our several senses toward each other, fibers trying to reach across the gap as fast as possible, following a blast.