I should try to make myself useful, but the question remains what useful looks like.

Everything that comes up is just the tip.

It begs the question of what is the point. But then that question can be begged of everything.

The point is the point. The point is the tip. The tip is the point. The iceberg is melted. The tip is all that remains. Keep sharpening it. Make sure it never runs out until it runs out.

The words are the mind, and the fingers are just the tools.

The tip of the iceberg.

There’s no purpose in writing except writing.

There's still a deep iceberg that hasn’t been explored yet. There’s plenty else down there.

No fundamental seed or nidus or ground zero or origin or self under any of it. No under. No iceberg, either, in fact. The metaphor doesn’t work because it’s a metaphor. Ohhh, yeah! That’s a relief. No iceberg, only this one moment that goes on forever and ever.