diving in for a something else. uncertainties burst. all i seem to remember are coffins. this is misleading: we don't use coffins. cotton balls stuffed in the mouths of the dead. this dividing line between the past, the present, the future, the dead, the living, the self, the other, must be dashed. i crumple at thoughts not my own. this memory is perfect, pristine, and palpable. this is not a metaphor, not a myth, not even a mystery, but my mind. i yearn for a different cortical imprint. my desire is blocked, my affections ignored. this is not a puzzle, but a melodrama. diving obstructed.