You press the button.

Ding.

A bathroom appears!

Ta-da!

It’s not the greatest bathroom ever. I know this because I ripped it off an article titled “interior designers reveal mistakes to avoid when designing a bathroom”, and further down is the same picture but with red arrows in certain places.

But hey, it’s a bathroom, which is something you really need right now.

Will I be watching you?

Of course not, that’d be weird. I’ll just switch tabs and go back to playing Among Us.

Don’t worry about me. When you’re done just scream really loud.

…Skrýtið.

You scream.

At an exceptionally bad time! I’m just about to finish my last task, and there are only three people left alive! Give me a minute more to- Aaaaand I’m dead. Great.

Well, now that I’ve completely lost the game, where were we? Oh right, you were using the bathroom.

You’re all done, I presume? Did you remember to wash your hands?

Good.

Ok, let’s get to the next button!

You press the button.

Ding.

Looking around, you see that there is writing on the walls! Who could have done such a thing? Is it prophetic writing? Will it detail the end of the world?

No. It’s poetry.

Beautifully written poetry, drawn onto the walls with gold ink. All quite beautiful.

Do you like poetry?

Good! Poetry is an art, more so than writing. It isn’t just words slapped onto paper or onto a screen, no it has rhythm, ithas timing.

After all, isn’t music just a combination of instruments and poetry? And who doesn’t like music?

Sure, there are people who prefer instrumental music, but those people are dumb.

Anyways, you go up to the wall and find a poem.

A tint of red so distinct..

A wind hollered like a spectre..

A piercing chill..

Are bookmarks to my chronicle.

Oh how it thrills!

To cognize a sequence,

To confide in the patterns.

My anguish shall be honoured.

Every breath is predestined.

When I'm the protagonist,

Not a thing is stochastic.

Beautiful.

So full of meaning. It applies to you so perfectly. That last line. It brings a tear to your eye.

You read it again, feeling it resonate in your soul. How do poets do that; they write things that seem to apply to you personally. After a while you feel like you know the poet.

Poetry truly is an art form, and poets are truly artists.

WELL WHY NOT?

Poetry is great! It’s beautiful! It’s art! You should like it!

…

You really don’t like poetry? Really? Hmph.

Fine then.

Well, I’m not letting you press that button again until you’ve read at least some of it.

Sighing, you head to the wall. You spot a random poem and read it.

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,

It isn’t just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

Yeah, no. You’re not going to read a dumb poem about how to name a cat.

You look at a different one.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

Oh wow, a poem about someone reading.

How gripping.

Hard pass.

One last one?

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

Downstream? Wasn’t this supposed to be about wind? Not streams. Ugh.

In any case, a poem about birds is only marginally better than a poem about cats.

Like you said, you just aren’t into poetry.

Fine. I guess I’ll just mark you down as an inferior art-hating human being, and let you get on with whatever’s in the next room.

Having read your fill of poetry for the time being, you go back to the center of the room.

DO YOU PRESS THE BUTTON? Yes No