I guess im attempting to figure something out. Isn't that the bain of our existence? The slow burn mystery that churns inside all of us? The very root of it, a snake eating its own tail. Who though, has taken it to the literary stage? A step by step, play by play, unraveling of completely nothing specific. Nothing moving, nor starkly non-episodic. Tangeble, yet without plans of any sort, sale or structure. I am not who Im told to believe. We will not leave the light on to see. Maybe shapes are just what curiosity caused; The blue prints of mass confusion, scattered out like binary code, but if pulled back in, formed one single sphere. No weight, no scale of size, not one speck of anything unreasonable to be found. Still, impossible to undo the undoing; as it is, itself, by creation, the very thing it is, and the very thing it is not. That is the question it asks, and the answer we look for.