Doll, you’ve got it confused.
You are completely vulnerable when you forget to be in the-Moment.
You merely feel vulnerable when you find the-Moment and discover you had forgotten it.
You were wandering through the Meadow of What-If.
The Marshes of Why-I-Oughta.
Your home is in Right-Now and you never leave.
You keep forgetting.
Mountains do not need to be seen to largely loom.
A pond does not need to exist continually.
Seasonal droughts come before
the flooding of Springtime
with its garish blooms and hissyfit storms.
Cycles of forgetting to remember to not forget,
abiding by celestial currents among the degrees of inclination about the axis.
As pokes retch,
a spoke stretches,
from the rim’s circumference to the center axle.
Therein may we all meet.