There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?
The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.
Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable totems to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, spinning or spun, upset, out of control.

100% our touch.