superball
up and out - the long tongue of the matter - things unsaid and all the space to bring it back, if only - but no - and where does that leave us - in an underground garage with no hope, and stung/waffled egos - and did i really make you cry or was that all for effect - i guess we'll never know - unless, well - no matter - on and on and hope to know better next time... until... yes.
it's been seven days, but what is a day? and how do we know we know what a week is when we stop to divide it into things we know nothing about? and maybe that's the illusion-based nature of time - whether we call it a name or leave it to call us the same, we know nothing of that which we activate/operate ourselves in, like weak fish swimming for weeks in the nothingness of an undefined sea