There is an opposition to knowledge grown at the edge of the garden: weeds are a product of perfectionists because without wrong there can be no ideal Shame is one no away from being an apple snake pit guilt by the face of a deified criminal who will torture those who obey and prosecute the innocent with a divinely hidden smile If bookishness is hiding in other people's heads my intentions are spied and proclamations derive from these missions to the center of another intellect stealing the sight from every eye and turning my spoon to scoop the sound from each drum Gathering too much leads to confusion, of course, when things are all around there is no outside a wall of everything denies the possibility in anything