To cease upon the midnight.

Long ago, here, I wrote about levers and pulleys, and the sudden opportunities to dance when one is on your floor. The world whisks in such a way as to make a man's hands shake. Captured by circumstance, back then I had missed an element perhaps more impactful, it seems, to note of the world's wind that of course one must have come from elsewhere before, and by that course would see fit to step upon new floors, for new feet, where the dances differ and the company appeals. For, from head to toe, somewhere the steps must stumble here--perhaps the goofy hat, perhaps the lack of proper shoes, or somewhere in the length between. Even these materials can only poorly cover the drawings one may acquire across one's skin. Their ink has a weight that may spill in the desired direction, pushing one's body to make its wished moves, but if come upon a mountainous obstacle its weight makes one to tumble back, stumble down. It is right out of that stumble, perhaps, that another's shining doors appear, and one bows out. The appeal of loose toes, yes, of quicker steps. And here one must meet that, bow out, or otherwise break in half in trying to stand with the winds and their pulleys.