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Three Questions the world is splendid, I set out to find them again, and get lost in spent effort, like an explorer trudging in a small circle around the north pole, looking up into the echo of a fruitless plea. Imperfect simile? I can't tell. There's no secret of life, except when what happens after the secret of life is nullified is examined. Suddenly, territory is unknown, bearings have no bearing. I follow my small circle of footprints, and discover hunger is numb, a root stitched into what was once upon a time an orchard floor, into pale earth strewn with apples with no skin or meat or core. Imperfect metaphor? Yes. Emptiness is active, freezing wind through the north star no one who's broken their small circle and set out for the starless horizon can follow. Emptiness? No proof of it will I ever find.
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