Hinge Without Passage

Gathering at the edge of a sentence — fearful men, held apart by the thin distance between saying and knowing. Their voices fade before reaching one another. A boundary stands upright, dividing passage from pause, each side unsure which is departure. Waiting for something to cross over; permission, perhaps, or courage; but only time moves, hinge-like, neither open nor closed. In this suspended place, fear is the only thing that travels freely, passing through them as they remain, divided, becoming something else.