Sleight of hand,

The slightest touch,

Slighted and slighted,

Because you demand too much.

And why make demands? After all, it's all just a dream.

     But before—before it always seems so real. We, whose task is wakefulness itself? We? He who flees the world of dreamers awakens to a world of slumbering corpses, alone and haunted by an unfamiliar chill. The "he" is real—the "we": a dream.

Solacium Solum—

     You will never know the bliss of standing together with the like-minded—only the solace of indulging yourself among the similarly disposed. Don't ever expect to find fellowship in this world. For, if you should scuttle your solitude, you shall risk drowning in your own demands, gnashing your teeth and thrashing your arms amidst an ocean of broken glass.

The Blank Compass—

     In a world lacking cardinal directions, infinite regress might mean—infinite progress.

Déjà Senti—

     Tired and threadbare, the same familiar feelings return to you time and again. You long to turn yourself inside out, to locate the foundations of your repetitive constitution in the world, and not in yourself—as if there were a regularity to the world that lent legitimacy to the regularity of your soul. But the world presents us with an infinity of possible encounters. It is you who has exhausted your repertoire; you have lived too long. But worry not—this, too, shall pass.

And still,

We dance this dance,

Every step,

Every word,

Prepared in advance.