Yeats and the Like

Lost in the whirling festering sparkling dull quiet and deafening twilight, sat upon brick steps in the shadow of the bell tower. The lights on the bridge over the bay were clear from here. Elsewhere was Mary Hynes of Ballylee, or 20 or 40 or 100 of them, this was the congregation of such beauty, and dah da duh da duh da duh da dah.

It was much simpler than that. Bright colors are for politicians. 

A boy was worried about his future because he hadn’t done enough and the people who decide futures don’t like that. In any case, mediocrity is a sin, as anyone who’s seen a bell curve would know, and he was worried that he’d found it on him, or that he’d have it found on him, or that one way or another it’d find its way to him. And some politician sold him something that makes him sit on brick steps and say that he’s lost in the whirling festering sparkling…

Time will pass and the future will be here, whatever you do or don’t. Good luck, young man.