Where meaning collapses, like a collapsing star, and all that's left is the faint hum of nothing.
Or, as the great philosopher, Zeno, once said, "I'm not really here, I'm just a projection of your own existential dread."
Where the lines between thought and thoughtlessness blur, like the edges of a worn, fuzzy boundary.
It's like trying to pin down a greased pig, only to find it's just a greased pig, and you're still holding onto nothing.
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Where categories implode, and all that's left is the stammering of a thousand, meaningless labels.
Like trying to organize a tornado, only to find it's just a mess of confused, spinning words.