Everything is mystery. Contemplating it muddles my mind into strange binding twists, moebius strips of self vs self, all me but all strange. Who am I today, right now, this minute, this fractal moment in time and space? What do I look like—is it possible for me to ever know? Why all the fucking questions? Shut up!

Blast and hell, the tolling bells in the back of my brain won’t let up, they make me think that maybe time is running out, as if such a thing were possible. Can time be bounded? Did it begin, will it end?

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