The road to the West;

Abandoned construction.

The East rises up,

Looming,

All black smog and hopelessness;

Stiff drinks for stiff men

In dapper suits and robotic faces

Maintaining systematic traditionalism

Like clockwork.

No place for roadless visionaries

And madmen with their cackling songs.

Nothing up or down.

Nowhere to go.

But an endless field

Of planted crosses.