The edge of a hole is a dreadful angle. See the time edge of sleep, for example. The precipice of mind death! Consider its recurrence! The holes of waking and sleeping have a terrible texture: pulsing life encased in a thin shell of naturally clustered holes. This risks everything! The waking hours are left erratic, thin. Accidental. Such a cratered existence must be patched. Not just its surface, but filled: All the way down to the bottom, cauterized. If the matter could all stay fixed and malleable that’s all I can fit but a nothing starts with an edge I cannot accept. Bottomless circles swallow the certainty, the victory of volume.