But if the sick blow up
Then everyone's been
Sick from the beginning;

Nothing sleeps,
Especially not the tuna,
Who we redefine
As waiting for its proper lid,

Nor the man, a rumor
Generated merely in the interest
Of diversion. We've been at work
Inside an institution, and it
Isn't working out:

Certainly not in the way we,

Thoughts spiraling like tails,
Had plotted after our escape

In due time. Everyone was content
Once, so the useful path to take is
Gratitude for being rendered into

Content. Now the sunken caves apologize
For the interminable form
Who inhabits them; this is why
You never could enjoy diversity,
Which opens windows onto solitude

And lets the undead walk for a undisclosed
Figure; we'd been trying to be humans,
Competing at the emptiest of signposts, but there's just
Not enough incentive to it. Plants taste good,
And luminescence—still, these are only grace notes,
Far from a song that corresponds with travel,

Not to mention neither one of us is real.
I am satisfied with that, an image
Of its state, whether to play
Or to ride
When the suppressed turn on themselves—
They're looking to be rhymed with thirst,
Each a black dot by a red shell in a dark field.