When we walk between roads onto the soft earth around the corners of buildings new grass lies naked, vulnerable. But rising up around a backhoe moves dirt a freeway crosses with cars that glint across an angle of sunlight and air-conditioned office buildings hum behind trimmed hedges. I am ill-equipped for openness. I enter expressions on my terminal and the great noise of machines deafens me like any one who thinks he knows.
11 November 1987