my life is plagued with perpetual questioning of consciousness and fundamental emotions; my life always a commotion. and to make it sound better is my job, not necessarily needed by anyone else but myself. and you said to me, comfortingly, of a theory so famous and difficult but satisfying i regretted not having acknowledged it from long ago. you are explanations to everything that ever exists, an encyclopedia, a thing from the past, revolutionary, though sometimes perforated. nevertheless, you always admit those holes decorating your pages, correct them when appropriate, and enclasp me with your two heavy hard covers of emerald green; and i am inside you for the longest of a given lifetime.

do not worry too much,you say. but a thing i never say, but always think about, write about: life has no rehearsal. but if things have so far gone so well with you, this well, this good i feel like i have cheated because i think i never deserve any of these; i wonder how much of an ache there will be when it is time for our hanging garden, our utopia to crumble altogether.