Straw Houses

Time travel she explains is a condition of futility. It happens all the time. No one notices. The future torn and mended in countless variations. We just wear the costumes. Not interested in what is under the masks.

It's simple arithmetic. Perhaps a small dose of physics. It's a million small things combining to make the whole. It's blisters on the throat of the portal. As it mouths the words.

No machines required. The stutter of motors. choking on the momentum. Cold finger tips. Calculating the weight. Of living . In panics of when. She could still reason with the monsters.

Or go back. To before she needed them.

Time travel she warns. Changes nothing.

We'll always be small.