Our world rotates within an atmosphere of permanent war, so thick and noxious one might assume it was created by the Devil’s exhalations and farts.  But don’t blame the Devil. He’s doing his best to show us the way out or up or through this miasma of self-defeat.  It isn’t his fault that we are weak and cannot bear our own memories.  It isn’t his fault that we are wrong-headed and refuse to listen to the truths and warnings delivered by our poets. It isn’t his fault that more poets must be gleaned in order to shore up his message.  For the Devil never gives up hope.

We, on the other hand, are silly, weak, dangerous creatures, set on self-destruction as much as self-preservation.  And so we march forward with our backs to the front, carrying memories that might inform but which we bind and stow within the deepest recess of our minds for to remember would be suicide.  These are the impossible memories.

We must sublimate to survive.

But for a poet to sublimate is to sin at the most fundamental level.  This act deserves damnation, for a poets’ sole purpose is to remember and remind.  The prudent and common comes from Heaven.  Everything innovative, strange, and poetic thrives in Hell, under the Devil’s influence. All those who dare are damned.

Disclaimer: The playwright is aware that to write a play about war, knowing that this effort will not stop any of the world’s conflicts, guarantees, through this failure, her own damnation.