(no subject)

But it isn't just a tunnel to the next person you must dig, but a tunnel through tunnels, that is to say one dug from other sorts of tunnels, ones already set up before you, breaks in the opacity of every sort of substance, and every other every sort of substance, and the centaurs any two form, and the substances composed by ten substances in a row, and the substance any thought about substance is, and the substances of every other thought about that substance, and those of thoughts about those thoughts, and those of dreams, of hallucinations, of mistakes, of lies, and the substance that tunnels through tunnels become, and the substances formed around us like a footprint wherever we go, banked high at the farthest point east we'll ever go, furthest down, latest in time, and the substance of me writing about it and that of you understanding or failing to or never reading this at all or reading through it and deep into me or into the dummy me I set up in order to catch you and read you and change the years on all your pockets' coins. And worst of all, you must dig with what you might be through the solid diamond wall of what you could have been to even reach a space where you can see the next person at all.

And yet you do it every single day. I've seen you exhausting skies-worth of tunnels in minutes in sobering rooms. Rooms with corners you'll never touch, some with hundreds of square feet restless to ever be walked on, tapping along each alone, not knowing until you left they were only a balcony, out past the verge in the night of what never can happen.