This is how death invented art, and why love is the only chance we've got. Love is the kind of roadmap that is always folded ineptly. It's never precisely backwards, just larger than you have room for. Boredom is its own excuse. It fits snugly inside of everything.
Fear is our name for the previous moment.
The road is either nearby or clearly marked. It's still impossible. I think of remaining here. All of the world is everywhere around us. Even if nothing matters is too easy.