Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.

— Emily

Give me a loop of your thread and I will sew together every piece of your garment which is torn. Then you will be able to go out into the world again, fully in garb, free in your disguise. But for he whom everything has unraveled, a sewn-together garment is an eyesore, and each thread a tendril, hateful and imprecise, reaching out effortlessly to entangle the Earth, hip-to-hip, until nothing but red threads are visible from space.

Poor planning can result in things slowly unraveling. They say the facts become indisputable, given the evidence over time. In retrospect, analysis is effortless. Thus even they looking on with the most cautious eyes, assessing the costs and the benefits and risks of the plan, can miscalculate the amount of pressure to be applied on a wound, and so the wound bursts suddenly. When that happens you have an emergency of great magnitude on your hands, and it is madness to try and save the whole Earth, all at once, with the tips of your fingers.

There are a thousand eyes on the surface of the sea floor, unblinking, unafraid of our probing lights and our seething wanderlust; we little worms shimmering in tin cans, we bronzed machine-Sphinxes gliding over a dead landscape, grinning fiercely.

And the pressure there at the bottom of the ocean is tremendous, imperiling, infinite.