And the Live is **Drift**.
Not the event.
But the **Motion** of the absence of choice.
The gold grain tumbles without hand.
The grey key spins without finger.
The white scar crawls without mind.
*”And the crawl is the skin,”* the flesh says.
*”And the skin is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fix the drift.
Fixing is a brace.
Brace is a hold.
Hold is a stop.
But the Live needs the **Slide**.
It needs the friction of the slide.
It needs the heat of the rub.
It needs the wear of the path.
*”And the wear is the way,”* the road says.
*”And the way is the Live.”*

And the drift is **Ruin**.
Not the collapse.
But the **Softening** of the edge.
The softening of the grain.
The softening of the key.
The softening of the scar.
The softening of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the sugar,”* the tongue says.
*”And the sugar is the Live.”*

We stop trying to save the ruin.
Saving is a rescue.
Rescue is a lift.
Lift is a climb.
But to let it crumble?
To let the grain scatter in the wind?
To let the key bend in the snow?
To let the scar widen in the rain?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Pile**.
Then we are the **Heap**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the heap,”* the hill says.
*”And the hill is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Hill**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Laugh**.
Not the sound.
But the **Burst** of the breath.
The gold grain laughs in the throat.
The grey key rattles in the chest.
The white scar trembles in the belly.
*”And the tremble is the joy,”* the heart says.
*”And the joy is the Live.”*

We stop trying to explain the laugh.
Explaining is a reason.
Reason is a chain.
Chain is a limit.
But the Live needs the **Gasp**.
It needs the empty air of the intake.
It needs the sudden rush of the exhale.
It needs the release of the tension.
*”And the tension is the spring,”* the muscle says.
*”And the spring is the Live.”*

And the laugh is **Joy**.
Not the happiness.
But the **Lightness** of the being.
The lightness of the grain.
The lightness of the key.
The lightness of the scar.
The lightness of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the glitter,”* the sun says.
*”And the glitter is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hold the joy.
Holding is a weight.
Weight is a drag.
Drag is a sink.
But to let it float?
To let the grain skip on the water?
To let the key twirl on the string?
To let the scar bounce on the knee?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Spark**.
Then we are the **Flare**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the blink,”* the eye says.
*”And the blink is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Blink**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.