Across a greater or a smaller distance, glances - and he can't know whether a connection's made; he can't know if the distance has been lessened by the glance. There is a line formed across this distance. Between the two points in his mind the line is made (almost) tangible, almost he can pull on it, can almost reel in another mind. It's not the distance makes him fail but the lack of colour on the way. Sadly the greyness persists even along this way. Catching, however, in one hand (between finger and thumb) the tip of balance, and holding it steady and secure, he can act with a freedom not normally his - he smiles slightly, lets his body settle and relax a little. Wood. The table is scarred by years of use, the room with knots of people talking; he just hears the nearest of them, and reluctantly loosens his grip on the restaurant's balance. He falls over slowly into a fluid memory, letting the smallest of his thoughts surface; he floated on his back, supporting a weight he couldn't identify, and awoke.
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