Written by Ksenyia Davydova
For years, she tiptoed along a tight rope
towards truth. Way up there, up above alternatives,
vastly unalike and neither right. She slowly, sensibly tried to
keep her steadiness. At times she slipped, but stealthily seized onto
the rope with her toes. She would not fall down, fall for it, fall in love.
She fell away. Way up there, up above two alternatives. Yet as she
walked, the tightrope which her toes touched clutched her,
then slowly, sensibly slipped around her neck.