A cupboard danced before me, but it felt I the stranger. No mention of pity nor doubt did it intimate to me, a childlike being wound around giant spools of yarn covered in gemstones. "Must I fear these precariously fastened spools on the backs of lives?" Bogged down by the now animate cupboard. "Surely these purveyors of riches know what they're doing, practicing, for love or for greed, the protection of their temporary lord's ordinance." Words were lost on the cupboard, or at least that was my assumption. Assumptions were never my strong suit, but I often dressed myself in them to see

what reactions would transpire. If deemed foolish by the onlookers, I didn't mind. There were brief hesitations to endure, and in these an aura of peace, of ivy climbing the walls of what would soon be fellowship, I was enveloped. Paths would open up, and I would travel them and watch over them.

Bellowing out in grievous soliloquy, this cupboard chastened my egoic spiel, "Both the container and substance contained within are as one. It is the perceiver that, in his mortal anxiety, confuses this false duality. Primordial understanding of life and death have imbued in us this sickness. We've never truly experienced our own birth nor will we absolute death, so what foul earworm must we fixate on while life persists? Manners and the driving force behind obtaining prosperity lead to wounds of disastrous efficiency, as has failed many individuals, families, communities, and cultures at large. The guardian of the path that ventures through it to rejuvenate their sense of self, taking pride in his domain while neglecting his duties."