She waits at the top of the stairs. She likes the wide ones, with banisters down the middle. Sometimes spiral stairs are okay, too.
When you walk past her, she tugs at your hand. She tells you about up and down and how the best place is neither but in transit. She tells you about speed and motion and falling out of control but not. Most don't seem to hear her. The ones who do listen are too small to escape the protection of their insensible guardians.
The job is harder than she thought it would be. She keeps trying.
That Pot Or Vase I Think
21 hours ago