Maybe it's the sea of interestingness constantly flowing. Never unidirectional, never simple. Never just a flow but a flux - an upwelling, a circulation, an advection.
Maybe it's the wishing for a restart on everything, but also the somber presence of the eternal fear. Never really acting, never reacting.
Or maybe it's the diversion and convergence of both; the presence and the looming disappearance.
I can't grasp anything, but I'm holding on to everything. Maybe I'd be eating wonder and frustration again for breakfast tomorrow.
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