Move me.
Stationary progress settles over me like a comforting blanket that smothers.
Shift me.
My same-old-same-old scenery whirs by my eyes, or it would if I looked up from my phone.
Dislodge me.
My grip on the remote leaves marks and a bit of chair fuzz embeds in my skin.
Refine me.
The coffee grounds in my cup are reminiscent of tar on a beach; I need a filter.
Translate me.
I’m speaking the same language, traveling the same crossings, stubbing my toe.
Alter me.
Changes slap at my ankles like weak waves – I detoured around the tsunami.
Siphon me.
Mucus in my nasal passages acts as a secondary filtration device, but for the good stuff.
Push me.
Knee-deep in a sand dune, leaning into the gale, arms windmilling, I await the sandstorm.
Diffuse me.
I give up, I surrender to the elements and to entropy. Then I move.
Verbose Vantages 