The bubbles make an interesting escape. There is a point on the glass; all of the bubbles rise from this point. It seems completely arbitrary—an anomalous weak point between the world of solution and precipitate. They stop just before penetrating the surface. Can bubbles experience fear? The line up suddenly becomes a line to the side of the glass—a right angle of carbon-oxygen-oxygen lemmings, so excited to rush to freedom but too terrified to take it. The anxious little runaways gather at the edge of the glass, and one by one are pushed into the gaseous anonymity of my room’s atmosphere. Freedom at the price of insignificance…

I’ve been sitting at the edge for far too long. My doubts do not matter now, because my course has been determined long long ago. Freedom is my final destination, but how much longer can I linger here before I am pushed into insignificance?

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