I wonder how it feels to go into a paragraph and realize that you are dealing with a single sentence partway through; when the punctuation and confounding conjoining methods bring an and up when an end might have done, and a but yet as your patience ran thinner than the page you’re considering tearing into chunks and adding your own dots where they belong – for the nearness of your strain and anxious senses proliferate: you cannot smell or hear as the length of your hell becomes the very definition of enlightenment, a prescription that could not be offered over the counter or via the doctor; semi-describable; rather a felt-tipped life moment that helps you see that the trees do not end at the ground, nor are the roots a sufficient way to see the edges of interconnected everything, and every word is not enough to make the pain of going on and on and on disappear: and why would you want that…