endtime
No Mercy No Change No Chance No Choice No Hope No Pity No Way No Exit No Plans No Money No Job No Parole No Admission No Relation More Fear No Recourse No Response No Reaction No Returns No Regrets No Meaning No Justice No Peace No Future More Class No Trust No Beginning No End

There was a pall on every face, a gathering of remnants in suspicion of the end, a melancholia of things completed.
Everything is true. Nothing is permitted. What does art become in a world which itself ends up being totally illusory, even random?