We are quarry.
Looked after by the sickest gamekeeper.

I found myself upon a hill,
Breathing dust of stars.

I called your name.
I savoured the echo.
I embraced the ache.

The old lady queueing at the store. Do you see.
What's on TV tonight.
I remember the faces of the all the people I've met.
An orange may cost twenty-five pence.
The waiter cleaning the table looks tired. Do you see.
The dreary underground of this city.
My life's a leaf in a foliage.
Stay tall like a man. Give a hand. Smile.
Where's the ashtray.

The dream
Of infinite thoughts
From finite hardware
In the skull box.

The reality
Of nothing more
Than enhanced eelgrass
With mighty finite
Algorithms alas.

Which one
Makes this plant dream
Not to be
Machine steam?