Suspension is the moment you're hovering just over the precipice, your eyes squeezed shut and the sun burning red into the black of your eyelids. No, no, no, that's not right. What is the point of feeling if you cannot hear?
Suspension is the sporadic pounding of your heart, rising above the cacophony of the world screaming around you.
I was there once. Really, I was. I was a perfect little child with perfectly blonde hair always in naturally perfect doll curls. People would see my smile and tell my parents, "She is going to be a beautiful woman when she grows up." They didn't expect my hair to dishevel or my teeth to chip or my lips to crack. Too many nights sitting outside listening to the owls talk nonsense to each other, I guess.
"How are you shining so disobediently to by-and-by?"
"Oh, quite, oh, just a sprinkle of stars on my catastrophic- oh- nest."
"Fly higher, friend, haha, keep flying."
Listening to them can give you quite a headache. It's harder to listen to the wolves, thou