The listening:
 
Why the Allied voice that speaks of bird flocks,
of languages, of weather that eludes.
Do you not know that we, the masters of 
history and its materials, have strung
our hands to noose the neck and nape of fate? 

The reading:
 
I'm told to look for a "house". 
But I doubt that I'll ever need to use this. I 
am superstitious, you see. Having a roof over your head,
walking under the ladder. They're all the same to me. 
I am told
that I am alienated, but why am I still as one
with my landlord? 

The essay:
 
If only they had asked
about the trials of the working class and how
man cuts himself on his own machine, delivering
his work out in labour, 
a screaming infant from the womb.
 
Then I would have answered
that man can make himself a soul
from the dust of his hands or rather,
the soul of a man is his tool-shed.

The speaking: 
 
What is it with the West and the weather?
The hungry do not divine the flights of the sun,
nor do we, as unbelievers. It is as if 
my preferences matter to you. Do they? 
You speak of Life as if it were living. 
You are as powerless as I, in this room. 
The weather will go on as the weather. 
And men, being Man, will go on as men.