There's random poetry, if nothing else

Vincent Van Gogh, 1853-1890

Open up a book of poetry and read something. Here's Miracle by Seamus Heaney.

Miracle

Not the one who takes up his bed and walks
But the ones who have known him all along
And carry him in ---

Their shoulders numb, the ache and stoop deeplocked
In their backs, the stretcher handles
Slippery with sweat. And no let-up

Until he's strapped on tight, made tiltable
And raised to the tiled roof, then lowered for healing.
Be mindful of them as they stand and wait

For the burn of the paid-out ropes to cool,
Their slight lightheadedness and incredulity
To pass, those ones who had known him all along.