THE SELF IS AN INFINITELY HOT WHITE DOT WITH NO OTHER NAME

There is an infinitely white hot dot swimming in a sea of sadness swirling in saccharine sensations, yet drowning nonetheless for lack of anchor. The sediment of the shoreline is stacked into a neatly frosted cake, an eternally eroding wall of chocolate reverie and butterscotch imagination goo-ing through the blindly feeling claws and cementing the topologies enlaid in the fingertips. Time becomes sand in more than a metaphor but less than a shot glass full of itself -- or is it half full or was it half empty? There is a body out there - and in here too - and they are different, which is to say differentiated but not distinct, which is to say delineated by boundaries but fused at the pupils, which is to say that declaring a separation at all is only to point towards the abysmal schism cutting ever deeper downwards into the infinitely regressive musculature of the calcified consonants upon which we both stand without appreciating its warmth let alone recognize the elegant proportions of the hairy toed feetsies levitating just micrometers above the atomic structure of hydraulic psychic energies pulsating through flimsy lattice holding all the materials together. Here is a single reductive unit with no map to chart it, an isolated pixel liberated from the screen, a frequency drawing a sinusoidal wellspring just out of earshot, an existential unit of concentration with so many names that the chanting of them in sequence would destroy the universe if not for already birthing it; but hummed through which throat, toned through which hole, making or breaking what scrim if not of the diffuse membrane delineating an inside that somehow smells different from the vessel which contains it? Where are all the edges?