I know of no word to describe the feeling of false nostalgia at the sudden insight that you have spent much of your adult life wishing things would happen with relative cogniznace, and still finding no further action at your own hands in pursuit of fortune from your indolent tendency. Where is the world when you sit on so many days, when ideas are always on your tongue and lips to never find your fingers. Always I’m acosted by wondering, wandering into fantasy to find a thing; I’ve found some things. Been some places, still wondering here, wandering there as if existence is a fashioned precipice, on the edge of always breaking, and my anxious aims are always daunting. In lack of action, lack of consequence; and thus defeats the nature of compensation. What is given, shall be received, in this raw duality is every man. In pursuit of what we think we deserve, or wish, or want…we, I, me forget so willingly that our eyes and ears and hearts are everywhere, that the nature of self is the nature of else; and in such depth as we care to carry, every sign, sound, sight you take in correspondence pulls a piece of you into the river. It must then, at times, be true that you must far exceed the forces you bring into existence by heaving every semblance of self to her doorstep and haunt the houses with no name. This is the spark.