Crossing the third bridge, hammered-down chickenwire stops me slipping into black and white thinking.

Crossing the third bridge, hammered-down chickenwire stops me slipping into black and white thinking. But I’ve always got this fish slice tucked into in my rucksack pocket, ready to cut life through the middle. I’m choosing a side, setting up a tent there and arranging all my things. Narrowly gazing, falling, shrinking – on a journey for supportive evidence, towards collapse.

I could wear a sieve on my head (it helps to laugh at myself from time to time), waft it around like a butterfly net, hold it up for size next to my work-life balance. When I reach up and grab the handle, everything is in question again. Important details fall through and some of them stay. Then there are the bits that get stuck in the gaps.