Questions unanswerable, answers unfathomable. The silent sway of eternity pulls the thought back, away from the edge of its own demise, the glory of its own abyss. The sharp tongue of disaster cuts another cheek, turning away from truth to truth, lie to lie, moment to moment in a bliss unbeknownst to knowers. So sad, so sad, so sad are the villagers. They rock and sway, stab and scythe, but to what avail is this periphery way of life, acting only knowing not. What center can hold in a world spinning round? Thus do the prophets of ages long past still sing their sorry songs of vengeance.