When your thoughts and faith and expectations are floating about, groundless and buoyant in the sky, and then get popped like a plucked balloon. When you think you're safe in the out zone, but a playground ball hits you in the face, knocks your jaw, sucks your wind, and leaves tracks. Like an anxious tick, like worrying a hangnail, like an old and suffering hip. Like not getting to drive or even ride shotgun; as usual, you're relegated to the back, forced to to stare wistfully out the window, tracking yellow lines in pavement, just along for the ride.
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