All of the tourists are driving strange small cars,
almost like bumper cars.
There’s this incredible space between you
and them, so hard you could only
crack it with a symphony
yet softer than mist.
Through the mist you can just make
out the inevitable chair and nothing
else which is inevitable.
Someone says Norman,
it’s just a fucking artifact.
Please, Norman, go around!
But Norman, who pretty
much lives in the gears,
like a paste, and prefers
them unclean, mossy,
can’t make up his mind.