9

I dig deeper and deeper, always obtaining the same old result: there ain't nothing underneath...I crave and long, wish and hope for a bunch of sour grapes, yet...I go 'round the Moon, pockets of liquid bliss, the prints of my forefathers, the ages preceding me, the sound in Cheshire, a poisoned hat, the forest, a pot full of certainty, a fire... As a Behemot has sung: "breaking all the nails and the fingers from my hands." Light seems far, and the air in my lungs has started to dry while my organs collapse. However, my heart lies intact. So is the aim to embrace the piece of heaven my blindness has been promised.
Creatio ex nihilo?