“Well,” said Uncle History, “you can’t go back to the woods,” by which he meant the forest of the imagination. “We’ve been ruined,” he added. Then he got specific: “the Troubadour poets; castle walls, mechanical nightingales…all that la di da!” He meant it too. “The cafes, the wounded-ness songs; paving stones under your feet, walking home from dances.” Then he took a swig of clear liquor and you could see sunlight through his bottle—the label read, “no purpose for a poem, no purpose for words….”
Planet of the Blind 