sixty three miles and no feet to take me.

The things I have and the things I want are sixty three miles away. I don't know how else to describe it outside of that.

The question of why put to the hundredth power.
Then multiply it over and over again.

If only mathematics could cure the question. It would sure make the boundaries of this hell clear-cut, make crystal out of thin air and close my mind into a box of right angles and the right thing to do in which dreams of being with you run slowly into the ground.

That is
(vaguely)
Me trying to say that I don't very much like living in boxes.
Also,
I miss you.

But you knew that before I typed the first character in this mess of symbols and symbolism.

None are necessary, all are cathartic.
And, in the best world of worlds, reconstructive.