Whenever it is that feelings get in the way of removing oneself from the trauma of the now, information itself is suffocating, and all one wants is for the trees to blossom and for the flowers to start falling from them, as soon as it can be possible, and for no one to notice that you have become as small as you can possibly be and desire nothing else from the world. This of course strictly isn’t true; it’s the unhappiness you feel from it, the feeling that something is indeed missing, that makes you feel like you definitely do want something from the world around you. But it’s not to this end that you become unstuck in time, entrenched between the what if and the what now; it’s to that miraculous loss of sense and self that you decide to be no longer but to feel purely as if you were never your own. What this means is entirely up to the entity that you became the instant you were born into the troubled world you chose to make your own. What has been made of it is yet unknown. I have a hankering that not much will be revealed, but it is the truth of the matter that what you are is what I am, too. I am a melting pot of what you and I both hope to become. I might know the names of many kinds of trees but it is only a few that I will really like in the end. I will not want to remember the others and being reminded of them will probably only embarrass me.