There's a place in our mind in all minds—but each discrete not whole, a place of phantoms and echoes and anticipations and recollections. This is the dream, the liminal shore of the inner self and the outerself where concepts grow and die like seafoam in a squall. I invite you to read this for this is the shore of my mind—meaningless to you unless you like the patterns or find reflections in the flows of thoughts fissuring the floes of certainty. Why are you here, anyhow? What? Why am I? Oh, I know the answer to that.