You'd think I'd know my way out by now. I have fallen here so often. And recently spent such good time mapping the course. The flipside me trying to lay the grounds of rescue. But all the wise words and kindness, all the maps ever drawn are as nothing here, noise and babble. Nothing means anything in this place. Noise and babble. This is the far side of the looking glass, the cutting room floor. Outside. Nothing holds together. Nothing leads to anything else. Try as I might, the way out of here is luck and coincidence. It will happen when it happens. My job is to keep my arms and legs in, to get through in one piece. To be intact when the mirror breaks.
Telling: Streams & Logs