There’s a hole in every world an absence — taking many shapes and none fitting many times and all — that sometimes points to what is lost forever what might yet return what tears with hot and bloody breath what pulls and nags almost unnoticed what is best unfilled, and what we cannot live with if it’s left like this. Few see what’s missing, what’s amiss, awry, what stretches at the fabric of reality and puckers it. Those cursed with greater sensitivity to such anomalies can feel the corrugations follow them to where the hole gapes glistening with possibilities. Awareness, though, does not imply ability to heal; those who sense the strange striations in space-time should step away, steer clear. Every soul sucked in to longing stretches at its sides and so the gap expands.