A thread between this, that, those, and these can bring these machines up to their chimneys that blurt out smoke and screaming steam and process things that only seem. And in their seeming, grow and spin, but disappear upon the winds that always will beat man’s best soot and spend less time shifting and more to put these clouds into another place, in different shape and different face, in the empty looks of millions of folks who function by order from other ghosts, the ones that they’ve already become. The ones that say they won’t must have already become one.
So maybe this one’s going to school, and that climber there is paying dues, and clearly those are moving up, and these ones here are near the top. Providing the thread between this, that, those, and these, making it plain which are the machines, ushered into fire and out the chimneys to burn and reburn this, that, those, and these.