A month can be spent deep in an in-between, no longer the old self and not yet the new, the whole stretch spent crossing.

Iridescent, never settling, yellow to blue-green, a quicksilver core. It has the cool of smooth glass under the hand, the scent of cut grass and ozone, and the taste of cold lemon.

A long in-between can erode your sense of who you are. It carries you nowhere and resolves nothing — it holds a clear, steady line to cross by, so the passage can be walked as a way through, not a place you're lost in.