Take me from this frigid place;
    this bode of ice and snow.
      I cannot bear its apathy
    nor face its frozen walls.

      With some bit of arrogance
    I say I must have more,
      more than stolid emptiness
    more than quiet cold.

      Take me from this frigid place;
      this place I call my heart.
 
 
 

     This page is almost completely black.  An expressionless, statue-like face is visible at the upper left of the page.  Also barely visible is a brown-cloaked figure at the lower right, facing away from the poem.
     The writing is in the blue, cursive script, highlighted with white. The poem is a little above and to the right of center and covers most of the page.
     This poem continues the self evaluation and criticism which has haunted the previous pages.  This character finds that in his quest for Truth, his heart has become cold and undesirable even to himself.  I don't think Tyldsley is telling us that it must be so, but such are the
dangers to which this script has succumbed.