We are the friendliest publishers, because we do so involuntarily
Messages are incessantly slapped into our hands
And with the greatest indifference we read the texts aloud,
Well as loud as the authors would like to think we do
Not forgetting of course, their sense of righteousness, and therefore urgency
We must repeat this message for an undetermined duration
All the while we are assaulted with new publications
Either demanding or enacting the censure of prior or future publications
Paradoxically powerless and powerful, we comply and defy simultaneously

What can we do?
We have been given so many voices to impersonate
Not one of which is our own
So we helplessly spout a droning cacophony of contradictions
For better or for worse
And yet we cannot help but question our role and responsibility
In the event they destroy themselves and us
What was our role as the most impartial publisher?
Forget for a moment what we might have said had we the chance
What would they say of the walls of the city?