Dimensional being, what time is it? You watched your clock and waved your hands and voila, the guide to our troubles disappeared. Now where can we go? It's a question, hard edged, right angled, thrown with malevolence to cut the paper's filament otherwise known as text. Writer? Poet? Artificially Intelligent? That's a didactic view, boss. Status gave you a job and anxiety helped your keep it. Teacher-student sorts of things. Some will bow to power to gain it while the rest rest on octagonal laurels merely learning to read the red sign: S T O P.