The fan is spinning, spinning, spinning...

Bringing forth a breeze;

And she's grinning, grinning, grinning,

Her mouth and face a frieze.

And the thick and sterile walls,

Staring bleak and grim—

Laughing, cursing, staring walls—

Cursing damning, killing, prim.

And everyone is lost, mindless enslaved;

And I look and watch, so distant and depraved.

They laugh and cry, live and die,

But never feel emotion.

Damn these close, misleading aisles

And these energy repressing tiles,

The dim florescent, blinking lights,

So plain, morose, like all the sights.

There she is, and there she's not,

Like a shadow, a phantom—so far but not forgot—

Living on the fringe of life,

As cold and bare as a silver knife.

Barren of love barren of thought,

Barren and repressed, conscience bought,

She stares and looks just like the walls,

Just like the laughing cursing staring walls...