We all wish for that bubble of time.

The bubble in which we can explore every possibility, without fear of any repercussion. When the possibilites are endless because the constraints are non-existent. Where we can live out every path, go down every road, live out every dream. Where the fragile fabric of reality is torn from the tapestry of time, where infants are born from and the world stops spinning. The ethereal bubble of fantasy.

Bubbles, when blown, struggle in spasmodic convulsions to find their own shape. They never truly stabilise.

The bubble appears to burst and disappear. But observe the splatter of water on the ground. Like little tears shed for its temporal impossibility, even the intangible has its repercussions.