There's space. And then there's more space. And so much space that you don't know how to handle it. You have given away. Much. You have given up. Even more. You have given so much of your being in such minute fractions periodically and perennially that you have practically polished your inner self clean. Not a fragment remains. Of thought or feeling. Not a little particle of anger or despair. You have transformed all memories into fiction. So much so, that the minutest residues of joy and sorrow have perished. Who you were is a story. Your yesterdays accumulate into an amorphous interrogation. No, you don't reason it out. There's no reason why you would! You have snapped off ties with all that could have been memories. Fiction begins and ends. You don't allow it to linger on. You are an empty space. And there's so much space that nothing else remains. Light washes over your being and you assimilate darkness. You are a receptacle. Renewed each day. You are full each moment and empty again. For you see, you don't retain. You give it all away. And then there's space. And so much space that you don't know how to handle it.