There is a reason people scare me. Life. Life is. Life is made. Mad up of little frames. Like the ones in the movies, hidden like Easter eggs in a field to vast to surch. The movie works its self around to fast racing round and round until a moving picture appears glaring out the little moments. The precise. That brought it to life. Life moves to fast. I wish I could Slow. It. down. Ease my self into that pocket, that pocket of existence that occurred in one second of a frame. When that experience is experienced it will make a memory. A memory that could last a lifetime.

But have none. All I own is racing, fleeting movies.

And a drained water bottle and popcorn canaled teeth. Still to hungry and dissatisfied.

To move.