• One wonders how all that has depth can find no rest, whether creating commons and plains, or maintaining weather in chains, or the ruins weathering from the rain.
    One would be late to abstain if every word spoken was redundancy and every instant counted would only stain the hand of a clock that spent all its days wondering why hello always meant goodbye.
    Intimacy becomes a fleeting affair when the only rift in consciousness became an overexpanded sky, ripping like skin stretching across our forgotten galaxy where the only stars you see are the ones from an ancestor's memory.
    In the beginning, even emptiness was peculiarly empty, and sifting through the desolation was the Blessed Emptiness, a mold of intellectual property belonging to the landlords of the nations beneath our feet. A limited gander towards a hole in the heart that the modernist would call a congenital heart defect.
    But so it was, so it is, and so it will be that with limit, there is the desire to extend beyond limit, and as so, one can only reason that fathoming unfathomables is only attainable by seizing to fathom.