Today, again, I have nothing to offer to you, my friend, but my guess is that such an offering is a comfort to you. It is nothing said to no-one, to nothing. You are the most expansive opening into another - the most wide-stretched of all of the lacks - spread out upon the next moment of each and every single thing and process. What I send to you disappears endlessly into nowhere.
You are not so widespread because you are somehow completely separated from what is, but rather you are a part of what humans believe to be. Still, you separate yourself completely from the things that become because your ability to refrain from, to not, to remove from, to empty lies and goes beyond your participation in what comes to be. You are no form, no eidos, no structure that somehow operates with other forms outside of history. You are a grand and absolute lack that spreads, comes-to-be with everything, and yet you are not at all.