Somewhere in Oregon, there’s a cryptid practicing his art, speaking to the trees, and carving his will into stone. A soft hum echoes through his mind like dancing electrons in a high voltage power line. The current travels conclusively like tiny cars on the freeway colliding into one another. There was no real purpose for their travel from arbitrary points in space, other than the fact that they all believed it was their purpose. In fact, their attraction to their cathode was only subjective. If one moved deeper in this thought, they might hear what’s playing on the radio of these tiny little humming cars...
 “For the hymns of the river The current of adversity The longing for greatness we row 
In the course of this circle We found ourselves spinning Who defines the beginning as we row”
 These are seemingly random words, pulled down from the tangles of ethers and atoms, which are splattered on the imaginary brick of ones own mind like poor graffiti art. Here I am, or better yet, here we are on this little freeway of thought. We are another existential crisis, manifesting as shadows on the road. Or perhaps, we are the organism of thought itself, powered and projected by torment, yet, nurtured by creativity. We are both the shadow and the one who casts the shadow. We are both nothing and nothing, or better yet, nothing was nothing at all. The sign read “Welcome to Nothing.” 
 Sincerely, No one nothing at all.