Meaning is being in a charged environment and making a choice.  Meaning has in fact been held hostage there since the thaw of the last ice age. 
The ropes have begun to fray, a bit, but still they hold tightly, the way music holds a piano to its cardboard stage.  Meaning keeps making
a choice—many choices— but nothing comes of it:  the hedgehogs keep slaloming down the Chiltern Hills, deforestization in Sarawak proceeds apace,
and attendance at the night auction keeps growing.  The question of whether Caspar really doubled as the invisible spice merchant goes unanswered. 
Some of us rebuilt London.  Dili burned.  Meanwhile, deep in its arctic cavern, Meaning is flexing its muscles.  Meaning is working out the last decimals
of Zeno's paradox.  Meaning is planning a cruise.  Dearest partisans of pulchritude, gnosis, & light, the General Slocum will not be docking.  Meaning has
all the time in the world and refuses to give us any.  It's trickle-up economics.  At the night auction Henri Bergson is serving up another faux Vermeer. 
This one, like nearly all the others, features a domestic scene.  Meaning's long shadow falls across the canvas.  It's impossible to know the details
of the composition.  It's impossible to know who cancels the stamps.  Meaning at one point expressed a considerable interest in philately. 
Meaning premeditates.  Meaning is on its way home.