What are you doing? Or, what are you really doing? And, what do you really want to be doing?
Walking across once well worn floors, now brittle and frail, their creaks shriek for time to leave them be, and so I leave.
In dark basement, beer in hand, words on tap, I channel my 李白 and illuminate the secret affinity between τέχνη and ροίησις, all the while violence rages outside and past the borders beyond...
What are we doing? Or, what are we really doing? And, what will we be (really) doing?
