Nothing is.
It is everywhere—between the spaces in your skin,
subsisting itself into the air.
The eternal Nothing drips on every surface,
creeping through miasmas of poison and delight alike.

Most beings move blind to Nothing.
They change because of existence, because of things, because of time.
Despairs shift them, so do their grails—
living through direction.

They find and keep.
Stand and fall.
All while Nothing saturates each bone,
each instrument of vision,
every strip of actuality.