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?