At the vaulting dome ,waves refused to travel unless on a few pieces of silver and a name. The flying metallic bird will take two full hours . Angels in turquoise will feed our appetites. There is fear lurking in our minds behind bravado.
We try to shut out noises of death .We then read patterns in the grayed whys of decay. As though the whole thing is a science of death and we have nearly mastered the art of dying, of succumbing to the need to maintain transience. We smugly wear the polyester film of transience about us .We read poetry in the trivial tragedies of their tatters.