there are no means for escaping this world
    it penetrates even into your sleep
    and is its substance
    you are caught in your own dreaming
    where there is no space
    and a hell forever where there is no time
    you can't do nothing you aren't told to do
    there is no hope for escape from this dream
    that was never yours
    the very words you speak are only its very words
    and you talk like a traitor
    under its incessant torture

    there are many who have designs upon this world 
    and dream of wild and vast reformations
    i have heard them talking in their sleep
    of elegant mutations
    and cunning annihilations
    i have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses
    and in the alleys and narrow back streets of this crooked creaking universe
    which they with their new designs were made straight and sound
    but each of these new and ill conceived designs
    is deranged in its heart

    it was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows
    who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner
    and enter a narrow street
    and stand with him in the dull glaze of moonlight
    then he said to me
    he whispered
    that my plan was misconceived
    that my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake
    ``because'', he said, ``there is nothing to do and there is nowhere to go''
    ``there is nothing to be and there is no one to know''
    ``your plan is a mistake'', he repeated
    ``this world is a mistake'', i replied