Beneath the checkout sign glare
Is always a piece of something to remind me
That reductionism leads us together to the middle
Travelling from the station of ideas to reality
Material can appear featherweight, but then it’s heavy
Touching shoulders, but our electrons are far apart upon magnification
We are made of vast empty spaces, despite being in such crowded halls
Separated by larger proportions than oceans or addresses
Middle class, living in a middle world
Reading about inhabitants of middle Earth
On paperbacks from the forest to the factory
Later we’ll meet them in our local library
It isn’t turtles all the way down and we are not matrioskas, one in one
Gamera is not the planet’s stand, flying us upon on its’ back
Or Puranas’ myths, from ficticious climbers of the Mount Meru
My watch says that it’s 10pm…
As I’m still standing in the market queue