You find yourself, if you find yourself me, contemplating your lack of a navel, your exploding head. You find yourself sitting alone and cranking out grumbles to no one. While no one's listening, you explain that 'yeah' is slang for 'yes', that 'ya' is how they say yes in a different country, and that 'yea' sounds like the 'yay' of a hurrah but is a vote in the affirmative. Then you imagine people sitting in the dark, saying yeah? with the right spelling.
So you remind them that the only music they want is still what the music companies make them want. You remind them not to blog about blogging (or telephone about telephoning, or watch television about watching television). You remind them that leftover is not the same as left.
But the meter's running. So you bill drivers by distance times speed times weight times empty seats. You bill air passengers by standing them and their bags on a scale before take-off. You bill cell-phone calls by the phone's nearness to 'quiet beacons' at places that should be quiet.
Then, when things are quiet, you tell poets to try writing poetry without resorting to a theory or method. And you find yourself sitting alone, thinking of someone you knew before something you must have said about scrimshaw or futhark.