I shift to the right, then the left; I stoke that blank bar.
Those nulls are mine: vacancies from the upper-hand, their sides surrounding; I own them.
They: my boundaries, my spaces.
This is where I am?
This is me?
Where we all flicker on.
Why?
Why?
Why.
Why is this what I am?
Only the biggest of ideas?
I need the comfort of salt-air.
Am I this: the horrifying place of dissolving pigments?
This haven of unity?
I sleep away from the solitude of dream.
{ice;s shift right?
Puxwla to the left?
At least there is consistent tack.
Is there a pattern, I doth follow?
Is there satisfaction to a longing, I doth offer?
The shore would not be without the sea.
Shall I shove off before these questions have solutions?
Shall I depart to the space between dot and I?
My ship has been stowed for years.
Sailing... sailing... sailing away.
I'm no further than from where I have come.
It is not nothing.
