“I am where there is to be
when at last the phrase is of itself.” We have reached an understanding with our physical
     world, though Academia's still filled with Trash (like academics and other opportunists):
The famous porcupines are rolling up the dean has other plans.
“He fell from a cliff. She fell down the escalator in a bank. He passed out in the car, engine
     running."
"The onslaught, the unbearable onslaught of experience! It's laughable.” It’s utter nonsense.
"The gorgeous phrase just before the crisis," which is a typhoon.
Now then when the council gathers, you know what to expect. They’ll want ice water, the
     folks to not block the exits. "Ha, we’ve all been suckered in some vague way," of course.

"The shed contains multitudes."
"The full moon is a plot device."
The true story of all things is the one of denial. “I wish I’d marked the bedposts.” This is you
     again looking for something to say. Eventually
   everything becomes a declaration of itself. In saying
     the story, the story unravels. “I caught you on the stairs, staring at the ocean."
That’s just something humans do "to guard against the idea
infiniteness cannot be contained.”

Is that    right? Is the final bedrock of being chalked with the lines of a tennis court?
     I'll say "the equation
     careening toward its satisfaction" is evidence. Progress is a great bang.
       "But what of form?"

Form is arbitrary. The television of sleep, the ghost of holy labors.
Nothing is holy, nothing is safe.
"Pity the sleepy children, safe as cinder rolled in ash."

All the same though, "Someone somewhere is singing. “If you want to see me, sorry, but I’m
     not around. If you want to be me, turn around, I’m by the window, where the light is.”"
     So what of form, that drunk floating down the stoop into the street?
"He is swallowed in the crowds
and dispersed," as if through
traffic.