We’ll go here now. It’ll not matter because the filled glass will be put away. It’s not for them to do this. When they do we leave. It’s not truth and we know this. Because we know we cannot care about them or how they came to think. Their decision is their own and then there’s more. There’s always more it’s odd that we continue to care. A cob fell from the stock. A boy picked it from the mud and wondered where it came from. He turned and faced the morning sun. He wanted to ask.