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It is comforting, your concern being conveniently machined to fit this container as you plumb it confident as an artificer versed in human shapes, poured into tired forms, as if passion, even shaded, remained for any of us. But it is gone, used up. Years of prospecting, deep shafts drilled through the mantle, striking dark gold pumped up and out until you find, surprisingly, the earth is flawed by its own emptiness And so I confess, that the veins beneath this mantle continue their flow, slow and unabated, unreachable by such tools requiring firmament to grasp a position – and may, as a curvature accepts the weight of objects to move them, simply observe the circular motion as a mathematic effect of such effort.