Chaos in the center of the thought’s the only constant here.

The crux is crushed and deconstruct, dissolving out into

all surrounding points and principles, as middle touches middle,

overlapping every angle that arranges you.

But, such lends to the dream of life and love and death and interaction:

creamycream into the blackness, spiraled out to hug

fractals into pixels into pictures that connect the little

pieces of the many middles merging into us.

Not a point to point to. Point it out and watch it swirl around

your index digit digified into a billion squares,

or geometric, hexogenic dots without a center in it,

floating through the deconcentric middle that we share.

Nothing clings to nothing clings to all dissolves and drifts away.

Our points and principles and purposes are purely mute.

A polyseismic schism of the middles we imagine in them

are the gaps that open up to swallow every truth.