The edge of control and chaos — there,
where eternity and now compress
to one held breath before the runway clears,
before the hand commits, the wheel confesses.
The blocks are pulled. No physics yet has changed,
but something in the stillness knows it's done —
the future, once a sketch, is now arranged
in vectors pointing only at the sun.
We live for this: the pivot, not the flight,
the microsecond when the dice still spin,
when all our careful plans dissolve to light
and we discover what we've always been —
not passengers of time, but those who choose
the moment when there's everything to lose.