fig.78) Sinead O'Connor The low picnic tables that are under the elm tree are also brown. They’ve been scuffed up and scratched with very much sorrow and too much lament. What grass is around them is frail and burnt. But the dirt, that's just mud and it's full of ash and sharp nasty glass. Only the older kids play here. They kiss each other and then they go to school where they learn about the lines that separate each of the poorer states in our union from all of the other states. It's so cool and so sad that this very modern age of agony knows itself so well. "Like a palmist being read her nightly news knows, the nightly news is the heavy news. So let's set this little whistle up, you can tell me where or when it hurts. After all this whole century smells like art. So much so, it's all the way up in our eyeballs now,” WSBill spits into another glass and snaps his towel like he's a dessicated golf pro. "I’ll bet that Canada knows us more