Death's in the good-bye.
Mood can be as important as sense.
I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
Need is not quite belief.
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.