I guess, to be understood is like counting raindrops and advising a stranger of the tally. I don’t understand, what is the desire to be placed there? For as I write this I stare directly at the faucet fixated on my bathroom sink, reflection peering back almost styled fisheye, but distorted due to speckles of dried tap water on the alloy. Feeling comfortable yet? Or is the irregularity of boredom seeping into consciousness and already distraction has prompted vision to peer crosswise, out the window, I hope, at what flourishes under that beautiful blue. Maybe it’s raining. Maybe it’s nighttime, time is relative after all. We seek the comfort of beauty, distinguishing its worth by how familiar the comfort is. I don’t understand English, I only speak it. I don’t understand bullshit, I only eat it. I don’t understand love, I only suffer from its brutal punches. Yet. I continue with these descriptions and functions as if I understand their worth. Ah. The beautiful Cartesian Theater. What does thou have for me today?