Moot points across dinner tables all over America. We get lose, get lost in our own bubbles. They’re mirror bubbles, ricocheting grawps and grasping at reality’s crisis. Tumbling down stairs made of dagger and stone and we don’t care who we hurt as long as we’re doing the pushing. Malice, heat, hatred thumping heart. But buried beneath all anger is archetypical sadness flowing like underground springs and waters buried beneath caves of stone, the veins of secret life source that you have to work hard to crack and go to. It’s sometimes hard being vulnerable and scaling these mountains. At first the expedition is set out for some ego accomplishment, but this outward journey transforms into the inward. And there is fear and terror within. But I think the only way to get past it is to let it out. And it’s hard and complicated and sometimes awkward to at first ask for help. I must be getting better everyday. I must believe that. But perhaps to someone else, a stranger who does not know me, that is a moot point. But what do they know? Skyscrapers built on plots where grass and trees once grew. Obliterated history, cast iron doubts in the pan now. The sizzle of egg and fried rice and the tracing of the wooden spoon, making figure eights and infinity symbols. Numerology incarnate. Count the wonders of the world. They only have to be wonderful for you.