Coda In old stone seats of learning dead minds taught worlds stitched of atoms indivisible, like lonely dust of poor Cumaean Sybil in timeless solitude returned to naught. Others a smaller treasure yet still sought in distant realms strange and invisible. In florid foreign shades our risible souls with a foaming sea of quarks are fraught. Their nature presents ours a cold visage protean protons dance away elusive. Does hubris fuel the dreams of minds who dare presume to weave the truth from the mirage? A remnant grain of hope still makes us stare and grasp and snatch at ghosts of things conclusive. George Barton, 2016