Looking, we find none. Not one prince in a belfry. Not one seer, blazing sweetly among the jeans. Then the busboy claims a sticky vision, offering up his syrup-strewn plate. We mark another line on the list. All in all, another day brewing the abyss and the abyss of our fathers. The streets endlessly streets, the shops hooting and shaking dogs in our faces. Through this cathedral we walk, talk not of the darkness spilling from our pockets, not of the streetbird knocking on the unhinged door. Our beards grow long in the winter and sweep over the weary floorboards.

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