The nothing that I am is not a thing to trifle with, yet I have so trifled. I have trifled with my life unliving and by way of this unliving life, I’ve trifled with the living lives of others. I have trifled with travails and with traumata; with the works and wombs and wounds and worries and wooings of others, of you, your youness, youth, your youniverse. Please pardon. Please pardon me. Please pardon me my puns and lame phraseology as I am at a loss. I am at a loss for words and worlds and wild whirlings once made tales and fables, not these nothing notes to no one scrawled in cyperspace uncharted, inhospitable. And even this. And even this, my habit. Even this bad habit I can’t break, I cannot inhabit or consistently habituate each day, as each day I’m dwelling differently or otherwisely occupied with my life unliving, living and unliving lies and within the living and unliving lies the lie that by this trifle I might end the feeding of my demons and the demon that I am with some small sweetness. Something sweet. Some sweet nothing from my tongue upon your tongue untasting. Some sweet nothing in your ear unhearing, oh my sweet. Oh my sweet love, my lie, my trifle.