No cord could do such good discourse through a thread that travels, and I return again. What is the city but people. Medium of the worms and Nile. If it makes men mad, then the moon ought in malice make the tongues tied if we care to unravel them. A dawning of our strength is forever and the poets who have eaten us and our appliances, of necessity interred with bones. Starstuff. Sleep. We dress ourselves. We have painted our images on walls and what comes next. Strange hands. Pieces of the threadbare world. Punishment. Entire kingdoms. Medium. Having nothing a river could not drown in.