I have imagined countless future vistas that I did not write. I have visited the past on sleepless nights that were gone the next morning. Life is short, and that is reason enough not to do anything.

I drive daily to work. The same highway, the same time. I crave regularity, the tedium of rattling air conditioners and idle chitchat. It dulls the senses. But that’s not such a bad thing.

I live between tall green mountains I never climb and a blue ocean I rarely enter. On the other side of the mountains is a city I hardly visit. The idea of even traveling that far makes me anxious. Of all three I have memories, retold time and time again in my head. What need is there for new experiences?

To do nothing, nothing at all, is good practice. Just sitting, untold things spin out of my head; my self bifurcates and fractures, bits walking off to lead their own lives. The world outside and the world inside fold against each other, an endlessly moving tesseract. There’s no need to explain it to anyone, no point at all.