So then how can it be said that writing is both good writing and bad writing, that the same words are both well-done and yet ill placed if not founded out of pity, and, if it is not pity, how can it be pity as well, because it both is and isn’t, grown from stories that are both valid and invalid, that are admittedly and undeniably true though they have never existed, existed in nonexistence, were and yet never were, not in anyone’s mind, not in words, not anywhere-- a double double negative somehow a positive, without ever having been to be judged as either the negative or the positive it both very much is and isn’t, and, how is it that overreaction is an underreaction of this very much nonexistent existence of events which never were though they were, and are but are not, and, how did a touch never happen when the marks of evidence invisible through irrefutable tangibility occur in nonoccurrence as evidence to prove innocence when also to prove guilt, and, how is this nonexistence of this existent touch somehow proof of a false concept’s glaring truth on a Friday evening which never was an evening or a Friday at all, a moment of infinity caught in a second, and, invitation that was never meant to invite but to repel, but aversion is convergence is meeting is touch, is knowing strangers through distant intimacy without desire, is unaccepting acceptance of a thing that was, that never was, that exists, that never existed, that is, that is not: not if you don’t want it to.