I don’t know, for example, who hides behind Santa Claus beards today, don’t know what Ruprecht his helper has in his sack, don’t know how to wring the necks of gas cocks, nor how to choke them off, for Advent is flowing forth again, or flows forth still, and I don’t know if it’s some trial run, don’t know for whom, don’t know if I believe in all good faith that they are polishing those gas cocks, one hopes with love, so they will crow, on what morn or eve I do not know, nor if it matters what hour of day; for Love knows no hour, and Hope knows no end, and Faith knows no boundaries, but knowing and not knowing are bound by time and boundaries, and generally end before their time with beards, and sacks on back, and almonds that crack, so I say again: I just don’t know, don’t know, for example, what’s in those sausage casings, whose guts they need to fill, don’t know, though the price of fillings, coarse or fine, is clearly marked, what all’s included in the price, don’t know which dictionaries they filch the names of fillings from, don’t know what fills those dictionaries, fills those casings, don’t know what flesh, don’t know what tongue: a word has a meaning, a butcher is silent, I cut slices off, you open books up, I read what I like, you don’t know what you like: slices of sausage and quotes from those casings and books—and we’ll never know who had to fall silent, to say not a word, so guts could be filled and books could be heard, stuffed tight, jam-packed, thickly written, and still I don’t know, and yet I sense it darkly: the same butchers fill both dictionaries and guts with language and sausage, and there is no Paul, the man was called Saul, and Saul he remained and wrote as Saul to the people of Corinth in praise of those amazingly low-priced sausages he called Faith, Hope, and Love, so easy to digest, which, in the ever changing form of Saul, he palms off on mankind to this very day.