The act of spinning around as fast as I can creates a space in which there is only me. As soon as I start to spin, I become the centre of my own vortex. It is peaceful there.
Spinning on a gentle decline, drifting, feeling gravitational pull.
Spinning in biting cold sunset air, puddles flashing.
Spinning in defiance of fascists on a Saturday afternoon, uncoiling the spring.
Spinning fast enough, everything ceases to exist but the centre.
Spinning into mindlessness in the damp darkness with arrow darts of questions.
Spinning in space, greeting the winter as the centre of my own landscape.