I personally feel the word ‘candidate’ is such an awful word. It just reminds me of being relentlessly heckled, specifically, by people who shove their opinion down your throat. That an American politics because I don't hear candidate thrown around as often in Aussie politics. 

For this one, I challenged myself to just write without pondering so much. So it was a ‘just get it down’ kind of day. Usually I ponder along and don't stress myself if it doesn't feel long enough. It quickly became a following of train of thought, adjusted with poetic language along the way.

Paper pours down, a confetti of pamphlets. Numbers one to six compete against the odds, though an odd gives you a ⅓ chance of winning. An even balance, stagnant and indecisive, the trembling scales of worry between refined white feathers or rigid burning horns. The odds however, wane and flux, a seesaw shifting with the weight. But who winds on a seesaw? The hefty control of those rooted to the ground, bouncing at their whim? The loft creature who rises high…

It was difficult to stop when the timer went off because I really wanted to muse over a potential winner of the seesaw. It was definitely a rabbit hole.