If answers were trees,
this would be a desert.
This is a desert,
so I will conjure a flood like so:
a flood is coming, desert;
a flood of answers. You ask:
Will they be correct? I respond:
Will it matter if they are not
as long as this desert might bloom
in the aftermath of the flood?
These are questions, of course, and
we have no answers for them.
It’s killing me to hold back the flood.
It’s killing something in me that, perhaps,
ought to wither
and blow away.
Dark Matter 
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