There are activities of the artistic kind taking place here in the old circus tent placed on the discarded farmlot housing our metaphorical reunion of real and fictional emotives but, due to the sparse snow and chill-wind, there is little evidence. Maybe a congress of of talkers: all that is external, save the weather, seems quiet.
One should think, or say, something about the experiences transpiring within. The tent is no city of sin and legend ( although some have come from those ) but, we can reasonably presume, a repository of anachronistic declamations await expounding; poetry rants in short spurts (maybe) extended now due to the weather.
Anarchists: lives lead as emotives opposed to the great corporate singularity, can be drawn together if only as an audience, briefly gathered in winter to hear … words.
Implying the dignity of poetry; some word sets (supposedly) lead to truth, but truth is hardened when touched by words (this is where error comes). Words become the marketable lies ( the dapper flinty costumes ) which clothe that which was bodily experienced as flexible and livable.
Some words are in fact not words, but deeds, apparently causing effects. Maybe that is what the audience in the tent would have, extortions. And so the image of words, a carefully mishappened repository of myriad thoughts floating in the lives of the emotives, fuels their deeds: as they would in any assembly of trivial affairs greatly exaggerated.