Jesus, Christ, all these thoughts. A torrent.

Writing my thoughts is like dipping a goldfish net into a river. Too small goes through. Liquid goes through. Too big breaks the net. Too clever or quick wriggles out. Too far from the bank is entirely out of our purview. And what about before I arrived, and after I leave?

So if something solid and dumb that is bigger than the holes in the net and smaller than the whole net happens to pass close to the bank at precisely the moment I dip the net, I might catch it.

And why am I sitting on this bank with this net? What do I want out of this river?

If nothing I want fits those criteria, what's the point?


The keliophores impede the crawler's motion. With our dexterity thus reduced, the chances of our missing a branch are increased. We may have to rest here until we purify more of the solvent, but the prospect of delay, any delay, terrifies us all.