Won't you let me touch you? Am I an invasion, that I should be thus repulsed and hurled back in disarray, leaving the battered field shrieking with the bloat corpses of questions whose answers have not come to gently stretcher their bloody white faces away?

Nothing. Nothing.
It is nothing.

Where, then, lies the reason? There is no shame in revelation, no pain in response. The only hurt resides in confusion, the muddy mad need for clarification with no meat to ease the cramp.

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND.