One is cast into a schizophrenoformic existence which entails suffering to the highest degree and pleasure abound that borders on the divine. The soul in this form is dearth... lacking bonds yet it reaches for meaning even as it forgets its own name.

That which can not be named creep nears at all times. What is it? To name it, we must begin to ascribe the elements that give it form. A reckoning of the soul at its apex, the force to confront death when faced near a ledge, the savagery of a faceless crowd, and even the touch of a loving mother. All of them are glimpses of the same presence that leans close, patient, watching.

I am the trembling hinge between what breaks me and what makes me whole.
My name is the threshold.