There’s so many wrong ways to write it, so many blank alleys. The rain falls and the buildings are blind, windows with no lights. It is a wonder that anything exists at all, the rights and lefts of the mind that brought them to being so improbable. Only raw infinity makes them so, the dice are always rolling, the game always rigged. Sing with me, O Muse, just for a moment and I’ll find the way after that. Do me a solid, O Muse, your favorite paramour drunk on sea water and scorched by lightning.