(Speaks to the World)
Just as a convenience, let us think of the astrolabe-like construction at the left as A. Having accomplished that, let us then go on to identify the rusty, tinsnip blossom at the right as F—for “Flower.” A does as it is bid and performs well, a public service contrivance that cracks the whip. F is a blistering, headstrong fissure in nature and will not be adjusted to meet our expectations, should we be so foolish as to have any for it. A is made of metal and thinks it is a star. F is made of eons of flowers like itself and thinks, mistakenly, that it will perish after it blooms. A cannot see F. F cannot see A. We can see them both, and we are likely to take sides, forming queues behind them, a (rigid) line of bureaucrats to the left, and a untidy meander of poets, artists, lovers and madmen to the right. A looks approvingly at its following. F turns to the people in its queue and foments a silken snarl. It desires no followers.
