fig.08.282) There's still an angel inside this typist's honest shovel No snow is visible among the bramble by the Park River. She stops to say, goodbye from inside her white carriage as it stands tall in the road. Paul seems small beside of it. Mud crunches underneath his heel as though it were half baked under this cold sun. For just a minute they stood beside one another, feeling as though everything was ill fitting and poorly timed. As though the road and the smoke from the flares would hide them from this world's continuing change. After hashish, this is what Paul will say to her, "Maybe we can talk about the fashion of our love. How it is that we've finished voting in separate elections that bear our lovers names. Names like the name's of cold wars that became over ripe sitting on a plate at the center of our shared round table." "No," she says, "my feet are sore. They're boot-sore from handing things over like it were noise...