A court is, sometimes, a noun, as in “food court.”  
Sometimes it’s other things, but usually a noun.  
Courthouses, royal courts, and tennis courts are all nouns.  
The great thing about nouns is that they don’t have tenses.  

A thing is once a noun, always a noun.  I’m a little confused how this
applies to a fairly tricky molecular oscillation between water and ice
in the slushie machine in this food court at 2pm where the plastic tub
can’t seem to settle on sweating or crystallization given the air conditioning.  

States of matter are nouns with conditions, like the rules of tennis or
food courts.  The dimensions of a tennis court, 36 by 78 feet, are rules.  
The rules of food courts are as follows: 3) do not go with your mother if
you are between the ages of 11 and 23,  

7) heads never rise above 45 degrees below parallel to the table
while consuming food,  12) do not think about the mythology Burger King
and Panda Express are selling you in backlit menus and curated Spotify playlists geotagged and waiting for you in your phone.  

Food courts may be like tennis courts but they are not royal and
there is nothing regal to a Whopper.  Whoppers are food and thus nouns.  
The purpose of food is a verb, unfortunately.  Verbs make me nauseous
because of their tenses.  Tenses exist along a temporal triptych:

the past, present, and future.  When I look at a verb I see all its tenses;
the past, present, and future of a Whopper include a bloated cow in a field
in Idaho – it has one swollen eye and its tail frisks methane – and the
high school gym teacher eating said Whopper in the food court of our mall

dabbing his sweaty forehead with tissues in the school bathroom
the next day excreting it.   I hate the mall and I hate the
non-lineal experience of time.  My ex works
the Target cash register and does the absolute most.