There is a place deep inside The Invisible where I pray to the Gods of Fond Circumstance for a spring of the tangible pure water to well up from the deep, deeper, and deepest necromancies of faith, family, and sediments of endurance. The vastness of Fond Circumstance is empty and glad and as it is nothing it casts no shadow upon the valley and doesn't brighten up the night. A mirror shatters inside the shed and has no where to fall, glass separates into shards of wet ashen ice divided above the words like all other people and places and things redacted as if they were curses or the cures for cancer that had gone broke and bought up for pennies, volatile and ravey. I digress, I like to be comfortable sometimes in the shelter of air with a homemade cubicle and the illusion of discipline full