A zombieland nurtured on cheap bread;
The mysteries paved over, its magic fled.
Who are the writers now that everything is read?
The rivers ran dry, revealing the bed.
Mere trifles and amusements exhaust the eyes.
Are these dispatches discovered in disguise?
Somewhat inspired by the first part of the Substack article The Highway Kind by Henry Begler
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 