A pallid page: laid out for guillotines Of chickenscratch all frantic in a trek Across that indifferent monstrosity. The lines ascend, but tend to end a wreck. This certain fate stalks they who brave the Blank: To crumple and to crease, to never cease βTill but the wiliest, weathered words remain, Stalwart, scarred; final heralds of the peace. What end is sought in this warmongering? That questionβs murk curses humanity. Minds have been known to yield to stronger thingsβ¦ the dinner bell, perhaps insanity. Yet brave these squabbling syllables we must Else face the terror of collecting dust.