Why should I say all this was made for you? You mortal thing who'll die, and dead remain, Or live in place, and ever and again Repeat a script to comers old and new? Can you not see the carpentry and paste? The paths so anxious for a quester's tread, The purpose writ so clear around your head, The walls that stand to hide a empty waste? You know your life takes form before my eye? You blindly bear a purpose and a name, Survive as toy or kiosk, or else die in joyless sport, a token of the game. And in a game, perhaps I'd fight to slay... I hope that changes when I turn away.