If this, if that,
if so many possibilities
for the tiniest of anything,
none any better than any other,
for any number of reasons,
to any number of potentials
that become infinitely impossible to know

At what point does this fluidity,
multiplicity totality infinity,
become an empty nothing?
It’s always been nothing.
A nothing here at all,
and yet everything at once.

And words just get in the way of meaning
And concepts get in the way of meaning,
and everything is too broad
or too specific
and nothing is quite right,
and I pick at it and pick at it
unravelling it all,
and losing the threads,
processing away,
to clog up everything with code.
Every possible permeation of anything,
potential paralysis perpetual.