To child a human person enough and carry them through the night into the dawn of an underworld I would spare anyone’s memory for telling such detail of the spoon and the cup and what came about the turn of the century, turn of a key in a door lock, and hear the click of a sound wave break barriers, orchestrating town squares, coughing balloons to see if any of these colors would cooperate before making sense, and they did and now do. And these things as ordinary, as many cars on the road, and people in their cars lead by them to the places they belong, and what belongs to whom, where belonging occurrence inhales each intake of percentage of attending to activities provided by the workforce a person belongs to. And no one owns anyone really except slave-trade and slave labor continue all over the globe and this isn’t new information, it’s the retelling of where did I put my keys? And does anyone remind us how to do the dishes properly? Or do all politicians take things personally, in which case nothing objectively can become accomplished, that the greater sense of humanity is clouded by a shroud of differences in opinion, which people take personally because their towns are on the line, their reputations from where they are from are o the line, everyone who is worth anything is watching every move, and therefor no one can compromise anything—therefor war continues. Unconsciously habits of communication keep people apart from the desires they possess, spawning gaps where shells of spore-heads would’ve developed into babies grown from lotuses, except only with proper measurement, and not many ideologies want to accept a stake in the ground to help support the spine of a baby sapling, that would be too anti, anti, whatever they’re anti about, and it’s hard to say because stones aren’t for languages but deep contemplations upon the walls the walls stand for. Places for weeping or places for quiet. Not every place is as public as the public once was, where the myth of the public has entered and forced itself into the domain of the spaces a public once inhabited. Now the public is an exhibit scattered across the internet, and the voice of whatever it is to have a voice, is one large electronic database of cross-sourcing international information—keeping things dynamically without rejection of technological standardizations of living. Impoverished people in India introduced to the computer, do maggots need to understand beetles in order to continue to feast on the dead?


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