Through much dreaming, I have traveled to these distant shores. And something always presses me on, on, when sometimes I would like to stop and look at all the things that surround me: such is the curse of mortality, it would seem. I dine on the barest scraps of meaning, anything that will fuel me towards some end I have only a vague idea of what it might be. Much dreaming I imagine is yet to come, and many of them I cannot make sense of, and I shrug off, wondering for a moment if it could be some sort of warning. Where I am, I see no footprints around me, but I notice I leave very little traces of myself here, as well: the rarefied landscape swallows much in just the grandness of its expanse, for not many can have been here, and the few (if that many) could go around simultaneously and never meet one another, I might think. Then, too, I believe myself to be completely alone, from time to time, a thought that can terrify me if I let it, or send me to bliss at the notion….