The darkness of your eyes is a curious darkness. I mean when I close them. Old dances are equal in distraction, like the shifts in subjects in a song. That's just the different voice in a choir, I mean. I mean, I mean to mean: Meaning from the random statistical patterns of this... "world"? Is it right to call everything "this"? "World" seems to mean "here" and yes, with "us". Like the positivists told the scientists, "yes" this thing with our eyes-- expansive eyes, microscope eyes telescope eyes large hadron collider eyes mathy eyes --these eyes are "I". Would I be comfort, --and yes, the substance of that word and not the action that entails the substance being a thing that can be --would you be comforted by the thing that sees being the thing that sees you as you? Imagine some other singer singing that no other such thing exists besides ourselves. Is that comfort? Is that a person or a poem? Is everything in that the same? Wonder with me back to empiricism. Knock on the table and think of it not as Idea (that beneath our own that we wished to wish). Wonder with me on this song, back-of-the-envelope calculated tipsily, alone, at the edge of a party --okay, the party of (this) life. Wonder with me, there, here, always. And open your throat.