'... if we'd be satisfied with it all being "a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes" ... if that "answer" took care of it all, then my guess is we wouldn't be here on this list, any of us ...' I guess this does indeed illuminate my sense of being a stranger on this list. In my own case, the meaninglessness is more comedic than tragic but certainly 'near escapes' or 'lucky escapes' is on the button. Is it just my advanced years that gives me such a distrust of any poetry - any language - not firmly rooted in the earth & the body? I can sense my own datedness in feeling so at one with old Ernest as he stands with his company, half-hearing in the distance through the falling rain all those grand words & concepts - or watching those shadowy women lamenting to the sound of the lyre. They will never mean as much to me as a quarter pounder with cheese - or a man's watch with a broken crystal wrapped in tissue paper. Scottie B.