Time to distinguish the linguist from the clown, the smile from the frown, the man from the town. There's no way upward and no way downward, just a longshortnarrowwidestraightwindinglightdark path ahead. Dreams of tomorrow's epochal moments spin me with dread. The lead of a bullet elsewhere punishes bone as a kid somewhere else does a runner from home, yet I sit here alone saying little doing less. My memories are fragments, my best answer's a guess. Is the world really more of a mess than it was yesterday? I guess that depends on what you like to see.