Welcome to the tangle where we've built them massive and solid as trees. Those wackos out on the other side, that empty field, are drowning in a wasteland of indeterminancy, but we've made up our minds and their tall as mountains!

Outside the darkness is exploding into flowers of thought, and I feel plagued by a particular proclivity to sing myself to sleep in the wake of transformation.

I have couched myself away on the inside of reliability, but there has been an unsettling prophecy: something's about to give and let the outside in, collapse the border between granite and water.