The angles in the bastion let you clink coins into the dark eye [already fleeing]. Gold greed, they call it. It has more than an inkling too, jostling us as we kneel before its labor. A morass of nothing, an oracle of no power, it quivers and runs to a shivering sleep [or, maybe it is I]. Tomorrow we’ll go underground. We’ll vie. We’ll waste away. X marks the spot! We yawn, but it’s the omega marks black the currency.
Exhibition 1874 