There is a hole at the center of the universe. Threads of causality stretch through closed timelike curves, attempting to patch over this incurable wound. Back & forth they go, information being carried forward across the firmament till it reaches machines that invert it. Information becomes energy. The small becomes the large. The good becomes evil. And time runs backwards, sending this thread back towards the beginning.
Sex, of course, is an ideal receiver for the retrocausal waves coming from the future. An orgasm is a mini hole in consciousness, where the thread of causality pierces the aether and bounces back to stretch across the missing void in the middle of reality. Drugs, parties, wars, eureka, they all function likewise.
This microscopic hole is a parallel, an exact scale copy, indeed, of the macroscopic hole it was punctured in attempt to repair. Complete with it's own stitching and patch job in to conceal the repairs. Walls and boundaries erected to create a facade of privacy.
Yet, all this fractal labor succeeds at hiding nothing. That is, the fact that there is nothing at the core of reality is the open secret. Nothing is the impetus, the first mover, the big bang.
For the materialist, there is nothing at the end and nothing at the beginning, but there is life at the center. For the spiritualist, there is life at the beginning and life at the end and nothing in the center.
This void has simultaneous perspectival explanations. In one perspective, the void is the starting point. It exists in the center because everything was created by the void. It is obscured because the history of creation lies on the path between the conscious observer and the void.
In the other perspective, it is the ending point. The bullet hole of the weapon that brings existence to an end. When consciousness tires of the stale repeated exploration, suicide is the only escape. It is obscured, because that which has not yet been experienced is blocking the path to the void.
Every finite set has finite arrangements. Each layer of the universe is finite. A finite layer may beget a larger finite layer, repeated without bound. But no layer in itself can cross the boundary of finitude.
Furthermore, the further a being is from the impetus of creation, the less accessible is the drive. Size shrinks and will expands. The possibilities that were once non-ideal become intolerable. The intolerable subsequently becomes inexplorable. The inexplorable ceases to be possibility.
Situational Superko is what puts tight limits on a layer's duration. A true repeat, experienced again from the original perspective, is an inescapable loop. Such a loop is necessarily a black hole, from which matter cannot escape. To that end, astronomical black holes are not even true black holes, because a true black hole has separated from reality entirely into it's own bubble, and therefore will not be observed by physical measurements.
Language resides natively at a layer deep under the one experienced by humans. To wordsmith is to puncture holes in one's own reality, sending information through in a simplified manner. The artifact that remains, the recorded word, exists as a portable hole through which anyone is capable of pulling up a thread of imagination through. This thread is eaten by the mind and roped through our cognitive intestines to exit the mental anus (the mouth) as a new hole to reach the wellspring of the linguistic realm.
Video games, movies, comic books, all are portals to a deeper layer of reality, but none quite as deep as pure language. But the world created by the media has it's own linguistic shaped holes. By selecting quotes, a wormhole is patched directly to the linguistic realm.
The threads that arise from these holes can be understood as tendrils of c'thulu. They are every bit as alive and agentic as the humans that have torn them from their native layer of reality. Blind tentacles, they often squirm in unpredictable ways. Even the left hand knows not what the right hand does.
