![[img-bathrobe.png]] # “Fear Of Being Found Dead in Her Bathrobe” I have gears turning,  not inside my head,  outside of it. They are words. They describe truth,  terrains, maps, measures,  whispers, fire, darkness, rooms. It is not chaotic.  It is surprisingly peaceful. Take the long road,  follow the twists and turns.  Always ask how,  explore the depths,  wrestle with the leviathan and death. On the outside,  it may look like wandering. Inside,  I am building a world. Outside,  like I’ve gone off on a tangent. Inside,  I am staring in awe  at a map of the stars. Outside, a note:  “Fear of being found dead in her bathrobe.” Inside:  understanding way too much  about grief, and memory,  and irony,  and comedy. How threads connect  in this web of intellect. In the primordial soup  where all experiences go,  strange species emerge  and then evolve. And I call them thoughts. But like the quasars and protons,  time measured in words  must pass  before the atom can form. Let there be light. It is worth waiting for.