,,,,-:*%## ##%*:-,,,,
,,,,,-:*%# #%*:-,,,,,
,,,,-:*%## ##%*:-,,,,
,,,-:*%### ###%*:-,,,
,,-:*%#### ####%*:-,,
,,,-:*%### ###%*:-,,,
,,,,-:*%## Now, Usually I Feel Good (Maybe?), But ##%*:-,,,,
,,,,,-:*%# This Time Of Confusion Also Leads To #%*:-,,,,,
,,,,-:*%## All Analyzes Ending In "Useless" - I ##%*:-,,,,
,,,-:*%### Was Being Bothered By Something In A ###%*:-,,,
,,-:*%#### Song Or Movie Or Book, So I Think, How ####%*:-,,
,,,-:*%### Would I Have Done It, What Is The ###%*:-,,,
,,,,-:*%## Purpose Of This Process, What Does It ##%*:-,,,,
,,,,,-:*%# Consist Of...? And Through The Process #%*:-,,,,,
,,,,-:*%## More And More Pieces Falls Off Until ##%*:-,,,,
,,,-:*%### I'M Standing There With Nothing. ###%*:-,,,
,,-:*%#### ####%*:-,,
,,,-:*%### Reductionist Hell - ###%*:-,,,
,,,,-:*%## I Wan'T A Bottom Floor, A Concept ##%*:-,,,,
,,,,,-:*%# Bedrock, But The Deeper I Go The More #%*:-,,,,,
,,,,-:*%## Abstract They Are, The Things, Until ##%*:-,,,,
,,,-:*%### They Cease To Be Things At All ###%*:-,,,
,,-:*%#### ####%*:-,,
,,,-:*%### Are We Just Stacked Triangles? There Is ###%*:-,,,
,,,,-:*%## Nothing I Can Do With Triangles. They ##%*:-,,,,
,,,,,-:*%# Can Not Shelter Me In Any Meaningful #%*:-,,,,,
,,,,-:*%## Sense. ##%*:-,,,,
,,,-:*%### ###%*:-,,,
,,-:*%#### And When I Can'T Even Anchor Myself, ####%*:-,,
,,,-:*%### When I Am Nothing But The Question, It ###%*:-,,,
,,,,-:*%## Feels Like It Can All Slip Through My ##%*:-,,,,
,,,,,-:*%# Fingers... "Whoops", And Nothing Ever #%*:-,,,,,
,,,,-:*%## Was After That. ##%*:-,,,,
,,,-:*%### ###%*:-,,,
,,-:*%#### ####%*:-,,
,,,-:*%### ###%*:-,,,
,,,,-:*%## ##%*:-,,,,
,,,,,-:*%# #%*:-,,,,,