Here, in a crowded marketplace, I offer you this. I know, I know: you are up to your neck in it; there is somewhere you should have been twenty minutes ago; you don’t have time for this nonsense. Granted, it doesn’t look much, but it is a whole world.
You can ball it to a disgusted nothing and lob it at the nearest seagull-priested bin. You can crumple it into your pocket along with your loose change and obsolete till receipts. You can pause for a moment in brow-furrowed incomprehension. You can ignore my out-stretched hand and stride past, your focus held, compelled, by the trail of gum gobbets and cigarette ends that guides your feet. You can nail your attention to the horizon over there, oh anywhere, over there! Your eyes can meet mine and flick away or glare me down. You might even glimpse this world, maybe even kick at the tumbled masonry amid the nettles and sneer at the god-fled ruin of it: what earthly use is any of that?!
Listen: the only way to see this world for what it is, is to become familiar with falling between the cracks in the floorboards with all the magnified momentary disruption and utter inconsequence of a lost button. It is a dark cramped place at first sight but light comes lancing down from the sky-boards’ flex and groan and illuminates a spark amongst the moth wing dust to kindle a humming bee-glimmer, warm and ancient and charged like amber.
And maybe the humming now has become a bell summoning the long lost in the back of your mind and here you are! Here you are: welcome to Kathedron.
For they labour for life and love, regardless of anyone
But the poor spectres that they work for, always, incessantly. *
*William Blake The Los Poems: Jerusalem ch.3 lines 279-280