SiverCat

He paces like the gears in his head are connected to the ligaments in his knees; like it’s an Olympic sport, the rush of his gait a swinging pendulum against half-sentences and scheduled timetables. He paces like going in circles is the only way to keep from getting lost; like wandering thoughts make a wandering body, too tangled in the abstract to find the ground. He paces like conversation is a labyrinth; like being a metronome keeps him on track; like he’s in a hurry to be exactly where he is. Like going nowhere will eventually lead to somewhere.