The thread thin and goldsilver weaving before me a precarious path of balance and edge the thin line I hold fast to when the plate tilts and would tip me off - I hold its cutting wire, endure the slit outwait the ticking darkness hoping to sleep and wake into a bright day with the real room around me and the voices quietened down, a beam of goldsun striking skin to arrest the fall and reel me back in - upright and walking in a world I see and recognise.next poem