The edge of a hole is a dreadful angle. Consider the time edge of sleep, the precipice of mind death. Consider its recurrence! The holes of waking and sleeping have a texture: pulsing life encased in a shell of naturally clustered holes. This risks everything. It leaves the waking hours erratic, thin, and 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 certainty, the victory of volume.