the curse of the 2-ball
Here it comes. The dreaded 2. No suprises here, just me running to the corner pocket. I hate this part - yet here I go. Into my dark, into my wanting, into myself without company other than the awareness of time passing. Maybe the third time will, in fact, be my charm. I'm little and the 2 is my only shot. No one ever meets me here - well, he did once or twice, but now irony would have it that my net has become my plank. I thought once that to fight at all was to forfeit all. I know now that nothing is left to forfeit, except that which was there to fight for in the first place.