"Mr. Nick, Mr Nick, tell us about that song you wrote," the reporters were relentless. "Nothing new, really, just a plead for pragmatism, just a frame of clarity, just a folk tune. Three chords and a mock, rolling in the rock, watch the shooting clock, here's one for the drop. Do it, just like that. Dribble that melody, scribble that reality."
"Call me Peace, please. Mr. Nick is my father's name. He's got more scars than me, but I got some. In the end, war has blinded, war has ruined, war has done no good. The diplomats of the world have mostly failed, got plucked and greased. On with the future, cut the anchors, leave then at the bottom of the ocean, let them rust to nothing."
"What are you implying?" Most reporters are dumb, missing the opportunity to understand for themselves, missing out on the thinking, wasting brains. Dull. "About the grease or the pluck?" The press room went silent, glazed eyes were everywhere.
