The apparatus of joy. They sent out reference books and caretakers and escorts. And at the gate endlessly a raving poet garbles travelogs. One guard to the entrance stands tall, at the gate before the law where the raving poet spends it all. ‘Don’t think you’ve failed. Left things undone, you desperate rhymer, I’m glad to take it all’. The apparatus of joy. Make way into a place with caretakers and escorts.