I don't want you there where facades jut upward; Barren boxes aiming toward a heaven for burned out artifacts of factory glory, and asphalt stretches of heydays ago. I don't want you there where gulls encircle gingerly, as if they too question their place in this vacuum while underneath them a lone figure strides, with hopeful eyes and sallow skin, with a look not of zeal but intent, feeling free, unaffected and immune. Please don't go there with color a mesh of sickly hues, too somber to even be gray, beige or brown. Where nothing is prominent but the absence of life, save for the sparse shoots of flax, which sprout grisly chin hair on withered bodies of brick and wood. To create, you say, and it comes from down deep. A stripped surrounding does inspiration breed. But unanswered attitude whips around us, and comprehension escapes me as you seal this fate.