And a child said, "What's a millennium for?" Her tousled hair a shroud of shattered glass in buildings of brown dust once called home. We saw her there, shoeless and unsouled by someone else's appetite for war. They have no names, their voices shrill champagne, producing more than we can dispose of, profiting in the marketplace of time, from the ruin their ravages obtain, to reinvest in their needlessness, their heedless acquisition of the fruits of our labour, love, unworldliness. Whoever it was invented time ignored it's circularity, the endless repetition we provoke. Unconsciously, the pages that we turn reject the notion of diminishment, the book that never ends, the chapters filled with errors we commit and recommit, unable to do anything but repeat, unerringly, the blunders of the past and, surely, there's no repeal, no exclusions from this acquiescence to chains of petty common sense that pin us down, victims of this war. Look, see the evidence of collusion, the slack-jawed acceptance of this fate; the Pleasure Dome overfilled with cake, the fanciful millions counting on a win, who want this or that to so enhance the days made unacceptable by pap, a place in the instant fames provided by a media mogul always on the make. The culture of the specious mobile phone, the phoney conversations that we make, an anomie of quasi-cultural norms insisting that we all stump up the cash. Here is the landscape of those putrid dreams mad politicians make so much of. A picture of consensual mistrust reformulated in a hooligan's fist. A phobia formed of old bourgeois terror fearing the loss of property and power. The hypocrisy of condemnation when the dispossessed mimic their ruler's lust for prominence pictured on a tarnished coin. The notion that the world is always ours. Here we find this death mask replicated by the fifty-eight found stifled in a truck. So let us ask what this millennium obsession is really, really all about. Can anyone truly know the answer how an arbitrary notion by a Roman king or, maybe, someone sitting on a throne doing the daily function we require, came to be adopted in this way, to justify this image of ourselves in this ultra-comic cosmic show? Perhaps the naming of time is a disease politicians and the rich employ to bolster up their privilege and power? Yet this argument is too absurd. It requires suspension of disbelief to grasp a fact so obviously at odds with promoted cultural norms that vaguely cite Judeo-Christian sages as the source of wisdoms we've received for countless years, drummed ceaselessly into our weakened wills. All religions' touts so mock themselves. You want to say the clerics should take a chance, recognise that truth can have no edge, no end, no absolute, no borders to be crossed, no arms to reinforce itself, no place. Where land is, there a people will walk, build, sow dreams of starlight in their children's cries. Laughter and grief have ever beset us all. How much a man needs or a woman needs is mirrored in their children's eyes, reflections in the deep pools we drink from, where the sun splits light, illuminating power, the hate of it. How much more is there than the sky, the places where the insects go, oblivious? Who brought down these dark ominous moons turned now towards us, teaching us envy and means to build fences of crazed wire? Could we have resisted the sea or did it seem like home, something we love ineffably, invested with it's ownness, unownable? Place your hands in pools along the shore where the tides recede revealing rocks we slip upon. We have no footing here nor ground to place our flags among the scuttling things. Draw your hands toward you, cupped to capture light, spilling salt as the deep sound soothes us still, beating like blood through our wombs, until we fall asleep like an infant, cradled in it's arms.