I am not sure what the future will bring, but it is not by the hands of demonic wizards it will be given. A different undercurrent underlies the world, one that cannot be managed. It is through instinct that world will be saved, the anxiety of those who still feel, the uncontrollable. It is through the momentum given by the excitement of catastrophe, the overcoming of odds, the propulsion of anger which fuels escape from the abuses of asylum-founders. It is not the trained soldiers, or armed gunsman who ensure the future. It is the poets, enduring a harsh world. It is those consumed by the earth, and not the ones who righteously sacrifice themselves-and others. Nature takes, nature takes wooden beams, nature takes words back into empty cave chasms. Nature takes the snowy plover and arctic tern back into her arms. If we enjoy life as a cloud for a time, its only arrogance we remain a cloud forever. We must remember our instincts, so that we can end pain, when the bars come in too tight all around us. Nature takes the bars back into her arms. An arm raised back to pull a string, to turn a top, and spin, gliding across, until meeting the beach. A black beach, whose string-keeper comes to finally meet a waiting, unspun top. One puts umbrellas aside, having been necessary, the spirit is strong enough to go back to dance in the cold rain.