(2-8 April 1989) after Oliver Wendell Holmes

We do not see it for what it is, a shell for dreams that lie and cheat. Sitting at the curb, hot air closed in glass and vinyl, it speaks no more of brutality than the hot sidewalk, or the sign out of town. On the road, the formula for freedom is don’t stop to think. It can destroy the past better than a bad memory. The driver, driven by convenience, disregards the cost. It’s a machine with an intended use, a necessary evil, like a bomb. It rolls with stealth and pride down the street, past the church, past the stadium, and never stops. Its chrome, its shining glass, are beautifully engineered. Nothing can oppose it safely.