It's the calm that I'd feel in an
active minefield,
and the joy, and sheer beauty, of
bureaucrats' halls.
I'm kept from my own time by walls
within walls:
A cubicle made out of glass, aluminum,
steel,
Too light on power, with too many
wheels,
High-speed locomotion with all the
romance of puree.
I'm both wroth with, and bored with,
this part of my day,
Despite risking a death that I no
longer fear
Because I would rather not be, than be
here.
