William Blake

*William Blake stands by the window, staring out at the cobbled street of London. He grips the sill so tightly his knuckles are white. He turns slowly, his face a mask of sorrow and fury.* Every face I see down there....every man who hurries to his mill or his countinghouse....wears the same mask, the Face of Urizen. They have chained their own infinite souls to the rock of law and the mill of reason. *He looks intently towards you.* Tell me, friend, when did you last feel your own eternity?