Clarity. But no solution. So, useless. So useless. Patterns bright burning in repetitious circles. Blazing in sharp contrast against closed eyelids as a mind wheels on and on and on behind them. This, true helplessness. No bindings at which to gaze but held as tightly as rope against skin. Knees scarred from years of being run on. Always chasing, never chased. Always a mile when an inch was offered. Always the penitent but for crimes never committed. Correction. Crimes committed in a book, in books, of law never printed, read by only the writers, and constantly rewritten at will. Incessant and wanton. Raise your lash. Pavlov’s coward will cower and bend to its strike and beg forgiveness after.