You dwell in this mad path and you run around in circles. Time and around, some clowns chase you and you chase your shadow otherwise. Within that closed dark pit, which is lit only as long your eyes can see, you stay. Nothing beyond. Nothing that exist that you can see and everything there is that you can’t see even from the back of your eye. As you go on your usual rounds chasing the shadow of a butterfly, on a night darker than the realm, you may stumble upon a pit. A shallow pit, looks like swamp if you were a flea, but with just the run down water. You feel you fit into it. The pit feels the size of your footmark, almost. And as you wonder and keep running looking behind at the pit, you traverse too many until you realise, that it is indeed your footmark. Just that you have growing small. Or the pit growing big, along with everything. What does it matter? And before you contemplate to stop and agree with your conscience, you end up in another dark pit of your footmark. But now fully engulfed in one.