As hands twist, stumbling through doors locked made of wood pulp and ink and the light underneath seems to illuminate the sleep in our eyes, it reveals too the cracks in the corners, the silver slithers and the rust.
To dart across country remains the aim but now many an Inn will beckon with its burning hearth each more welcoming than the last. The food more exotic, the crowd merrier.
Crackling azure wraps and warps, and their eyes glow with milken dullness. Bereft of colour this solemn matter thirsts and hungers to consume, to gorge, to shine postcards of brightly spotted watercolours.
No longer can we trace a finger down the side of a tree, to remain locked in a single room melting wax and judging hats.
The wood swung and thus the rope, born 200 years too late, when was the last time we heard wanderlust not for the road? The jailer has recaptured us not with wooden sigils but copper rods and numbers. A primordial beast slain not by magical tome but by black powder. The renaissance is over.
That we seek distractions with our phones, the internet and TVs and before all of this was created we would study or be fulfilled with just books.