All the places you've gone, all the places you've lived, all the places you've taken pictures of and walked around and in which you've loved and hated and been bullied and been kissed and hid and sought and read and spoke and found things and lost things, they are all sitting there somewhere, out there, existing hugely and quietly under the stars. And whichever of those places were mountains are crumbling slowly and silently; and whichever of those places were rivers or oceans or lakes are churning or flowing or behaving like glass; and whichever of those places were buildings are standing and shifting, or are demolished or are being demolished, and all the bricks or stones or cement that comprised their structure are buried or heaped up in the stillness somewhere or crushed into the finest dust that is being spread like a sheet over the entire earth; and whichever of those places weren't places at all but landscapes of your imagination, nameless rivers or valleys in dreams you can't seem to shake have dissolved into the fabric of your mind, creating it.
The world is immeasurable, and so is our experience.
It's mind-boggling, I tell you.
Cold, Cold Heart -- Norah Jones
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