There are things we can open and shut as many times as we'd like, whenever we want. And then there are things that creep through the cracks, subtle like smoke; things that crash through the boundaries you spent a long time constructing. Is it love? Is it tragedy? Are the two so unrelated? Is this a piece of you, discarded? A limit, a control outgrown and there is freedom and there is terror. Nothing is kept out, nothing is kept in. You could fly around the room a hundred times, to race yourself tightly wound, and yet ... and yet there is always something to make you come undone.