with tired blood 

looking back to where history dwells,

where pleasant dreams are inconceivable

and domesticated cats keep themselves company;

where everyone is condemned to an equal silence

circumventing their concerns of what actually is;

to where the ultimate decision has been made

and there’s no turning back leaving me to consider

the gathered who'll receive me un-clothed, un-shaven,

un-industrialized, and empty-handed?

what's that sound?–– Harpo!

what's this mist?

will I tumble to where another Hell is Hell

but by another name? –– or

should I gulp a few from the dusty old Geritol bottle,

reconsider the options and order in for Chinese?