Between these two pines, nestled in muscle-y roots, with a sense of protection from the world of noise and mindless scourging, I sit. This comforts my heart’s discouragement as I watch our ball bound wilder and faster downhill to hell, with fewer and fewer of its atoms’ permission–less of it’s own accord. I see a humanity possessed by the ideas of bouncing and bounding, and of atoms themselves, forgetting to rest between profound roots. Always the shining thing, the outward act, the doing. Seldom the resting, the taking in, the being. Twin coin-faced curses; curiosity and interest. Once all becomes interesting, nothing will be distinguishable; we will be our inter-rest payments, our bouncing–and nothing more. And is not every interesting thing already for sale, with ‘financing available’?