How does one say the same thing about Nothing, again and again? Lay the first course of bricks from a corner-dream-stone, and on a strong foundation of fresh air? Paint seven pictures of the night in seventy times seven misty colours, and watch the morning sun consume them all? Put a story-capstone on an ever changing tide of nameless feelings labelled into thoughts, then fence a portion of that sea and call it Me? My plans point at me and laugh from the rubble they have left behind, and watch the smoke rise and dance from the end of my cigar.