This, This, This, This, This... and forever more this. You can't escape this. This, this is... well this. Is it stuck? It seems stuck, or is it we're stuck? Is there a way outside it? What is outside it? Is it time? Is time an object? Is time a thing to escape, and when this question is answered it only invites the wave of endless more. Endless, endless till it stretches the ever far reaches of your mind till you can't find any room anymore. So you begin at where you started. This. Can you trust this? You know this will be that, but when it is that it is always this. You can't seem to be anywhere else. You're told to make the most of this, and if not, your this in the future will not be a very good this. You toil through painful, boring, and burdensome thises to get pleasant, fun, and luxurious thises. How long is a this? Are you viewing several of them at a time? When does the this become then? Does it happen every second? Every millisecond? Or shorter? How short? How long can it be? And what is this right now? This at the end of the sentence I'm writing right now? It's the present I'm in, that you can only view as then, but well... nothing ever lasted that long anyways.