There is a walloway through despair. The walloway is old, a tube of tangled branches, wrapped around a stream. You know its shape from an elongated daydream. You can walk there on your feet or on your hands, dangling from carbonized twigs or holding tight to veins of graphite. Will you feel differently when you get there? It’s hard to say. You’ve never made it all the way. You know the quickest path through is by wandering in, surrendering to the sinking sludge and slush. You must keep on walking, keep on looking. The ceiling dribbles in your eye, which makes it hard to see. You slip and fall on pools of ink. Its okay if you lay down a while. That is where you’ll remember what you cannot say. You can touch it’s edges with your feet, your eyes, your hands, your whiskers. If you think you’re lost, the walloway is solace. It knows its own way. The other side is not for you to know. Not yet.
