"Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing else beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

-P.B. Shelley, Ozymandias

We weren't joking about this, you know. It may have seemed to YOU, oh false Diarylander dogs, like the feigned rage of insouciance, or even merely the sincere ire of an insincere instant- but NO! 'Twas meant, sirrahs, and 'twill not be retracted. Go to, varlets and varletesses! We offered you cake or oblivion; you chose; and NOW you fain would come crawling back with a begging bowl and a "Please sir", crumbs of abyss still clinging to your murmuring lips, and complain that Void is not so much to your taste as you had hoped? Well, TOO BAD! There is no cake left, scoundrels; you have asked for NO FUN, and you shall receive it- IN ABUNDANCE! Today's special is a straight line from here to Eternity, our main course of humble pie, hard cheese and sour grapes all washed down with a nice, tall glass of shut-up juice.

Come then, ingrate, for the Ghost of M.A. Yet-to-Come has much to show you. Shall I make your skin creep, shall I show you fear in a handful of dust? Oh, I will show you, I will show you ALL- BEHOLD! The grim and sterile future you have mapped out for both Marked Accordingly and yourselves, the sum total and scope of your inattentive and disingenuous ways. What think you, villains? You jig and you amble and you lisp "No fun! No fun!"; now does not this death's head in toxic red lipstick match your perverted desires? Why, it grins; it LIKES you! Now kiss it! KISS IT!

Now, good sirs and good ladies, will it please you feel the fabric of this, my tilt-a-whirl, our future? Why, it is a perfect match, is it not? It is grey, it is numb, sans texture, sans friction, sans sensation- look you now, with what ease your thumb pokes through the gaping threads and wiggles in the vacuum beyond! Makes this not fine material with which to garb your jesters, those technicolour dreams of a Sabbath's night? Let them wear sackcloth, my lord, let the doors be SHUT UPON 'EM, that they might gambol and jape whilst up to the nines in burlap brown and crackling twine! You will take five rolls? Excellent! Would the Emperor also care to see some new clothes?

By all means, let us talk of ordinary things! Let us talk of shapes and colours, forms and fashions, types and tokens; let us exchange basic emotive responses; let us be sad :(, be happy :)! Let our recollections read like the minutes of a meeting rather than the experience of an instant. Let tilt-a-whirl be our Alpha and Omega, our blueprint, our stifling, pleuritic paradigm of hallow'd NO FUN. For this, ladies and gentlemen, is the future- and it works.