*Socrates: An Honourance, A Forlorn Lament*

I kept searching for that which I saw all around–hands to hold, food that feeds, money provided so that I may give.

I heard the crowded streets, and their crowded chatter. How conversation seemed full, as full as the air in the lungs that bothered to breathe their expressions.

I looked towards the stars, and knew they burned without currency. I felt a sense of duty to join in the harmonies of rounds of banter, seeking companionship, and distance from my own loneliness.

The closer I listened, the more I saw: the bicycle may be moving, but the spokes are rusted and tearing. A disastrous condition of circumstances, to see the disaster of conditional circumstances; coins may roll through bumpy and seeminly-lively streets, but the stars that burn without currency did not care to put coin in motion. It was, in fact, the hand that cared to mint the coin that provided the care necessary to push currency over hill–a bank note does not fly unless it is carried by breath that cares.

Hard work should be paid, and constructing a city or town does, indeed, require good trade.

Innovation... what does such require? Care. And when the current of currency goes cold, the passion that first placed the bank to hold the note fades.

To require cash to withdraw cash, to have to pay a fee that can not be afforded, afforded me the drive to push the envelope and speak of how that which is spoken is rusting, burning in sunlight that never accrued a debt.

The birds would sing and fly, and sometimes, even laugh, dance, or have the odd, odd cry. I couldn't deny that we needed the stream to house the fish, but when the fish cost the very current they swim, no bathhouse can be made.

Broken and torn, bank note and coin glared at me, reminding of the cost of currency, the price of dividing society into hierarchy.

Does the development of law provide utility? Does it provide care?

Weathered and battered, I fought on and on, pressing the matter that a feathered-mattress need not cost the birds that sang in very atmosphere that had been provided, provided, without any kind of currency.

Song in air sang by that which floats in and on atmosphere, I drove myself past my limits, hoping, hoping to find breath that truly actually cares.

Does Philosophy pay? It is taught, yet does it acquire title? What is the purpose of pressing pressing matters, what are the purposes of philosophical thought, and does it require care?

Is there any worth in speaking when the coin deflects the very air of care swam by birds that sing of songs that never acquired dollar, never valued the value of notes that cannot fly on their own?

Does money care? Or is it the hand that hands the note the true singer of care that provides care?