Who is glued to what? I asked.The tip of the question sprung up in my headlike the lighter end of a freight shipsinking in the middle of the ocean.Cargo and meaning disappears into the hidden depths,until even the tip is swallowed beneath the surface.What was the question again?The click clank soon followed both hectic and rhythmic,like the waves crashing against the cliff side,eroding bits and pieces of its foundation.I became used to it.We all do, eventually.I peer over the shining light and see others identical,white blazing across their placid faces. Sheep in the light,blinded by the sheen of their own wool.Only with time does the wool darkenand people break away from the reflective glare,with eyes unobstructed to the reality.But by then it's too late.The vices become too familiar, comforting even,And the years,Too few...