I wish I could say that my mind is empty. It isn’t. Instead, it’s filled with a piercing constant ringing of thousands of small bells and a cacophony of vibrations. I think of a Philip Glass Symphony of sounds pitched invisible. Maybe a multitude of dogs whistles simultaneously blown.
So, why can’t I make any sense of anything? Of me or you? Past, future, present, loop ad infinitum. Why did we argue about nothing again? Remember how we used to believe in love? Once having each other was enough. Now, it’s nothing. Null set. You believe in the elegance of numbers. I believe in the elegance of words. We have lost our intersection.