Oh Philos, you dug so industriously, like an ingenious prisoner with a spoon sneaked from the mess hall.

Tunneling and pushing out past trails and birds, pines and crows, worms and lizards.

Beyond sunsets and moon rises, to cups of coffee on a grand crown of land above the ocean.

You smashed through the gates of illusion to find a dusty little hovel called prison cell number two.

And the grubby spoon in the corner awaits the blistered hand at your side. Onward.