There is no way out of BLANK.

It's very gloomy here under the shadow of BLANK...

Nobody else dares sit here and so I do.

You will board when you're ready and the flames will

Eat away at me, laying scorch marks deep in my skin

As the rest of you fortune-struck conformists take off.

You can't return. You don't want to.

 

Return? What a thought! Only the depressive return.

Say! Were you thinking of staying? But no! Don't do that!

 

Oh, but did you know that there was no way out of BLANK?

It has consumed us. It steeps at this moment among our grey cells.

We can know nothing except for trivialities. We never seem

To be able to speak to another person except about the weather.

Always the weather. Always the same. Would it be any better

If the weather were always the same? No. We would be

Just as profoundly entertained. Just delighted with it. Horrible,

Isn't it, the weather today? We would gladly talk about that.

 

It's very undemanding. We like that.

There is no escape from BLANK.

There is no way out of this.

 

Nobody reads anymore. Nobody can think of poetry anymore

Except as a great blaring advertisement for the unrealistically good.

And there are the issues at heart, of course. But how--when art complains--

Can art preoccupy itself, in reality, with being beautiful?

That is, after all, what we are looking for.

BLANK has stolen art from us, and what will we do?

Rebellion is not the answer. What will we do?