fig.32.081) Satellite's gone way up to Mars... There's never enough liquor at the AA meetings and they let the coffee get cold and the diabetics are always nicking the cupcakes before she gets in. These are the things that are linked to our hearts, she knows that she isn't an ancient one. She's cold and tired almost always but her red hair still cares a lot. The trash is high outside in the wet spaces between the brick buildings on our street. It waits patiently, it's abiding time like a thick whittled marker that shows the deftness of our inhumanity to one another, one grain of sand at a time as we hope and wonder at it all. Someone was shot near there, a flower that's now passed in a puddle between the walls of two garages painted with thick milled butterflies and maybe balloons or hopeless rainbows. They bled out there like people who have been shot down too young to be anything will bleed soon enough in many more ubiquitous corners of our rug. "