sometimes i don't even know. i think there was a point i was trying to get across. but it didn't cause it can't... whatever. enjoy.

And Why Can't There Be 11 Multiverses?

It's cold, in this world, where no one can understand you; a dull smeary horizon that reminds you of what's left behind when you smash an ant under your thumb on white lined paper, lit by a bleary silver sun, a watery eye blinking for the last time. You can't say what you mean since no one understands it, because years of thought have gone behind the statement that tumbles from your tongue and you don't have that kind of time. So you don't say what you mean, but you don't bother saying things you don't mean and what you actually mean you don't say, yet you still manage to speak without lying. And you're grasping, falling, seizing, flying, reaching out to someone who doesn't know why they want to reach back but who will do it anyway, because they like the feel of skin on skin even though your words pass through their mind like a faint rippling specter.

It's uncomfortably warm in this world where everyone knows what you're thinking, where nothing surprises anyone unless it's actually nothing, because that's never happened here before. The thoughts of others caress and glide away and come back harder, firmer but with less charisma locked in a perpetual cycle of degradation. Words are spoken before you think them and they smile kindly and whisper behind translucent hands which barely cover the light that spills from their mouths. The air is not breathable here, dense as it is with indifference and distaste, so you drown slowly and only wish you could do it better for them.

You cannot feel anything in this world of sleep. Nothing is here for this is for all things, the all father and his kin. The darkness is spongy, like the walls of your homemade prison, the one you like to bounce in and sleep in, which always smells like burning graphite and smoldering balsa. There is no door, no light, no sound; touch is not even in memory. But anything here can be whatever is here. You make nothing from the nothing and slowly move on. Dreams are here in the darkness that oppresses, dreams that set you flying high before falling. Here anything can be but nothing can get out and soon you'll find that nothing ever wants to. The darkness, like water, swirls around your finger tips, your lips, your hair; it eddies around your knees and elbows and you learn that here, dark is dark is dark just can't apply. There is music there, in the whispering of darkness, of secrets and mysteries and surreal beauties you could never truly feel.

It is strange in the world where light and sound mix. You can taste with your skin and see truth with your lips. Pictures abound with textures unseen, contents pouring out behind them as they go so the ground is littered with fairy wings and oil paints and the kiss of cigarette smoke that reminds you of your grandfather's wooden pipe which he used to puff on as he did crossword puzzles in his lumpy armchair. Memories that aren't yours, but might as well be waft themselves through solids cozying up to your bare feet wanting you to take them, take them back and give them home. You learn the lights that go with the sounds and speech hurts y our eyes as well as your ears and it's only a little while until you stop speaking at all.

You spend a year in the hill and come out younger than you were when you went in. Wee folk dance with glowing skin and dangerous wicked thoughts and your hands are cold and gray and red and blow away in the wind. A single stem of bell cap lilies is traded for a heart and no one even glances at it when it stops its rhythmic pulse. Rings glint on fingers and tingle on toes and twirl through noses and tongues.

The dance is led by those who understand this and it will never want to stop