The Search

He circled the square. Figures milled around with concerted purpose, each deriving their actions from all others adjacent. A world driven by sprockets! Self-contained within glassy domes, and droning with activity. Each day he performed this ritual, and while he looked, and searched, the purpose now, was to facilitate a distillation of the soul, rather than a futile routine of masochistic disappointment. Alabaster orbs streamed this way and that, their glistening exteriors masking an infinitus of shadow; yet somewhere in that dark, a singularity of sun, its quantum light guiding lost vessels of meaning, safe, over abyssal seas of multitudinous malady. Eyes (so they say) are windows to the soul, their glass an improvised (if not ideal) tool, its purpose part of the slow process of observational alteration, the milky cataracts of ignorance enhancing its reflective properties. Yet in this morning mirror, peering at his face, his perceptions lie fractured by the dissonant din of moving meat. The precision task of peering through the prison bars     (only infinitesimally widened by the passing of years), spinning madly in a maelstrom of discognition. The very tool that made change possible, broken by the chaotic flux of its own output.