A Few Sentences

Treading through the hallway, almost awake, she trips slowly over the undulating floor. Pitching forward softly, she breathes out to slow her descent, resting her hands and forehead gently among the carpeted waves. Alas, to be at last down here, knowing rising again is not needed. She lies there, just enjoying the movement, because there is nowhere that needs to be moved towards. Not tonight. The ocean kneads her body, stretching her like dough over a dozen baker's fists, coated in flour and pushing out the original forms and releasing the stress within. The intended form is free to exist now, drenched over her present and soaking, slowly, seeping into the future.