Let the written word prove my, our, nondescript but ever-looming defeat. Let the text, metatext, exordium and postface contain the failure whose seeds were always within. Let the footnotes explain the disappointment, with erudite references to philosophy, classic and contemporary.
Let the thousands of failed scholars of tomorrow painstakingly pour through the humdrum facts of our existence, looking for the reasons for the catastrophic sadness that engulfed us in our early existence and the melancholy, the fury that is yet to come.
When the time comes, let the learned sages of tomorrow sift through the ashes to distract themselves from the cold that will continue to seep in, looking for the embers of the past to warm them in their dreary futures.
Let them fool themselves, as we fooled ourselves, looking for external remedies to the loud failure of tomorrow which germinates today.
Let them never find the truth, the horrible, monstrous truth. Let them cloud their judgement and not notice that we were never under seige, just in quarantine.