Somewhere along the way I have refused letting it pass me by like some sort of insignificant blip of absent thought, left to fend for myself in this plain of existence only comprehendible by those who took the path of never ending exploration. I meander atop the pages of a half written book awaiting its daunting abrupt ending that will shatter every fragment of being that ever was or is to be thought of. Writing on an empty canvas supplied by the cosmos with only people to write with, the story of time shall end, thus dispersing our believed existence in the reverse direction in which time travels trapping us in a bubble of time matter that we must exist inside of, traveling through the impossible void of the exact moment that a second turns from one to the next, back to the beginning of time.