I try to find the right words, but if though I don't, I don't fail to try again, but it's trying, exhausting, actually, as my brain balks and falters like a skinny boy in a marathon dance contest at the turn of the last century, no longer seeing the point of the competition, or the sense of winning. We aren't even surprised they're working on Sunday, but it's only the large puzzle of words going up. The rest of the little empire in the park is freezing silence. His message will prevail, they say, with enough money, and time, yet time diminishes all the time, for us. Anyway the oligarch found the right words, for him, and manufactured them in a special kind of concrete, which will last for centuries, like the styrofoam landscaping, unread perhaps, perhaps unnecessarily tried, or just hard to read, given up to arcane history, unless one finds the perfect place, perhaps with the eyes of a drone flying in shrunken space.