The edge of a hole is a dreadful angle. The time edge of sleep, for example. It is the precipice of mind death; consider its recurrence. The hole in consciousness of naturally recurring sleep has a terrible texture. A pulsing life encased in a thin shell of naturally clustered holes. This risks everything. Exposes the waking hours, leaves them erratic, thin, accidental. Unacceptable. Unbearable.
Such craters must be patched. But sleep is no surface – it is deep and endless. It must be cauterized.
If life and its matter remained fixed but malleable . . . but a nothing starts with an edge . . . Bottomless circles swallow the certainty, the victory of volume.