Work Undone If we must remember to never mistake plain truths from plain facts, and your truth can’t tear mine apart, can’t use its white bone to rip my blush flesh, then there must be infinite universes to call them residents. And they can’t be exclusive, no bouncer at the door no all-black attire, and, most importantly, they can’t know about the other’s existence. You see, I am sorry if these words are scaring you. They are the only way I can cope. How you cope, well, that may be a VIP entrance-fee. And I am petrified by the idea that the plain reason behind every single action of ours is a way to cope with our fleetingness. Do you think so? I want you to feel infinite. When you read my words, do I make you feel? Infinite? I am terrible at endings and think I might just stop here, at times my hand won’t let me end the sentence. You know when you ruminate, and you have gotten so far past the point of chewing your intestines that now you have that taste in your mouth like you’ve been chewing someone else’s dry gum for three days? And it might be different if the taste was the taste of your own spit. But because it isn’t, you have a disappearing thought, that occurs after the thought that you’ve already forgotten. But this kernel brings maybe the slightest bit of consolation while you dry-heave. Sometimes I question if God, wherever she is, doesn’t let you keep that kernel on purpose. Maybe if you shoved it into your pockets, the endless universes would get instant IM’s or whatever they have out there, notifying them that they aren’t alone. It’s like, when I think why can I imagine an atmosphere where the sky is a mirror, if it truly doesn’t exist? Who is letting our minds go there? It’s like when you have to make the decision of forcing yourself to stop thinking like that, and then the engine of the train shrieks so loud, it does it for you. Like when you ask for a sign, and every time you see something to make meaning of, you convince yourself coincidence is the devil.
Why is man so dire to know the whats of the sky? Is that, too, a decision? You’d think maybe we’d have wings if it was our business. We’d be half-