Laws of Thermodynamics: II

Entropy is Eternal

In a small corner of my mind hovel there is a stair, cobwebbed and nitered with stick figured cave paintings. At the bottom on the stairs a dusty office opens its mouth. It is the kind for shady autodidacts, unsavory cotton candy spinners and sculptors in folding chairs.

In a single filing cabinet there I keep my lexicons. They have labels, peeling and faded, the corpses of dead spiders and reams of hopeful, empty pages. I open a drawer and step upon hanut, karpousi, el routoubia, accablé.
It is a an unpleasant place. I visit seldom. And though I am turnkey of this prison, I demand nourishment of my charges even when they are crumbling dust or the frayed ends of cotton dissolving slowly in a vat of bleach.