They do not know, but then, they do know something. What they know diminishes the proportion of what we may know. So, are they the enemy? Are they the dreaded ones who have been predicted? Are they the pleasant scourges who kill everything in their path but the petty and murder wishes of schoolboys? They do not know just as the ancient sailor did not know that one day a man such as himself would float in space. Captured by the raw sea air and the rigging, the sailor and his fellows pass their time making up songs and elaborating on scenes of cities they have passed through. The broken stones and piss pots everywhere; the stretch marks on the tits of some of the nasty whores. A moon reflected in a mirror on an open windowsill. Sailors are great for stories.

They do not know but are ready to harm those who do. Beautiful women seduce them back to the old way where the women retain their versatility; where they are not thrown to the side. They do not know because their minds have been emptied of beauty and stuffed compactly with facts and truisms. They do not know the world passes over the walls of the dikes and creates panic in the lowlands. They do not know.

And yet they know things.