I try for a poetic language that says, This is who we are, where we have been, where we are. This is where we must go. And this is what we must do.
The black asphalt wouls shimmer with vapors I had a theory about those vapors. . . not released by the sun but by a huge onion buried under the city. This onion made us cry. . . I thought about the giant onion, that remarkable bulb of sadness.