Saturday commute viii

We are absolutely and utterly completely not ready for this. We are so off-the-charts unready, that vertigo, which we don't know, threatens to tip us over the ledge of this plastic balustrade and into an Escherite pit of pure, appalling clawing for our purse.

This Wagnerian Venusberg, this dystopian cockpit poured from Fritz Lang, has been created only to strip us and flail us and drain us on some pretext of delight. No one lives here. No dogs walk by on lead, no birds excite the air, no corner lets us take a turn to stop and share a kiss. Who thought of this? Who dreamt this?
What is my answer to my dog, of how this came to stain his day, in obscenely sprawling solicitation? Gary Cooper turns to his mother in Sergeant York, "What are they a-fightin' fer, Ma?" She puts the skateboard to the ground, "I don't rightly know, Son. I don't rightly know." 

And so we arrive at the banquet for the Armistice in the first reel of Warren Beatty's Reds, where Jack Reed is asked to stand up and discuss the meaning of the war. He rises on the dais, says one word, and promptly takes his seat. "Profits."