Hall of Records

There’s a clever thing, stabs at her hand on every corner now, revising the screed. Watch her huff at the tiny screens that send her chimpish copy up the line, to speed the raising of the giddy, pixelled hall: cornerless, mirror-tiled, the gorging sphere a fast-receding shell enclosing all we say or see, never to disappear, bigger with each second, and the next, its facets auto-replicant, until the Record of  what was— each fingered text and pic, the starry shards the hours distill — impounds what is, slaves us in its spell, sorting the diamonds in our dazzling cell.