The more I know, and it is mostly things I have know for a long time, the more I cannot remain in this place. I can write as many words on the enduring properties of the American Dream and my pursuit of happiness but I will always know that I must leave this place. There is no mistaking it as a kind of pain, disjointed and compartmentalized inside of my body, it is also a carelessness that pervades any sense of reason in binding myself to that kind of pain. It is a false positive in remaining in bondage, a promise that, while some can give, the whole is a thing of confinement. If there is a place that is, and I can not just imagine it, this movement is necessary. That stoicism of the industrious is a wound birthing (in)finite turns, the revolutions successive and fracturous, these are not to say broken as they reflect a continuum and resistance of reason. What, then beyond reckoning provides the space of other, not binding, haptic, if smooth, or infinite in textured and layered peace?