Poet: find your universal here.
This road that leads into the wilderness
Is largely empty at this time of year:
And you’ll find scant material, I fear.
Singer: sing your song of loneliness.
The day grows gray and ashen in its mien:
And here beneath a sky of carelessness
No voice is heard to comfort or to bless
Driver: drive down to the lost ravine –
The days of telegraphs have come and gone,
As past mistakes, the ghost in the machine
Stretch this road at it’s edges towards the dawn
As I let go of thought, and just