I call him a drifter,
but who remains static?
No thought ever nailed itself
down, tacked to airless walls.
No body stops unceasingly,
all that pumping and throbbing,
ever moving cogs and wheels
the sentient and incognizant alike.
Even in death and decay, there
movement devolves-transforming.
Stillness breathes a steady notion
but no such evidence exists.
Ever in motion, roving nomads,
we, the universe compels it.
In the gaze of the other 