to close my eyes, and bathe in the myths of my age, walk through the rows, the pillars of truth that hold, arise this sweet tent, with pinholes to the sky, pathways to stories, just a passer by am I, or through, I will not know until destination met, how confident and prideful we are, the content of common knowledge, the hubris of assumption, ten or twenty or one hundred million pass, and where is the meaning written, species reigned for millions, the remains of king’s of various ages, just vestiges, baubles, curiosities, collectibles, will our mass be the same, bones in the mass grave that is this land, the fairest arbiter of all, to produce all life and then swallow said whole, to endure another run, I wonder what is worth more, a recipe for perfect chicken soup or the entire lexicon of the english language.