Darkness Invades The Dreams Of The Glassblower.

It Is A Curve Each Of Them Feels, Unmistakably. It Is The Parabola. They Must Have Guessed, Once Or Twice - Guessed And Refused To Believe - That Everything, Always, Collectively, Had Been Moving Toward That Purified Shape Latent In The Sky, That Shape Of No Surprise, No Second Chance, No Return. Yet They Do Move Forever Under It, Reserved For Its Own Black-and-white Bad News Certainly As If It Were The Rainbow, And They Its Children...

The General Public Has Long Been Divided Into Two Parts; Those Who Think That Science Can Do Anything And Those Who Are Afraid It Will.

So The City Became The Material Expression Of A Particular Loss Of Innocence – Not Sexual Or Political Innocence But Somehow A Shared Dream Of What A City Might At Its Best Prove To Be – Its Inhabitants Became, And Have Remained, An Embittered And Amnesiac Race, Wounded But Unable To Connect Through Memory To The Moment Of Injury, Unable To Summon The Face Of Their Violator.

Explosion Without An Objective', Declared Miles Blundell, 'is Politics In Its Purest Form'.

In Recent Weeks, In True Messianic Style, It Has Come Clear To Her That Her Real Identity Is Literally, The Force Of Gravity. I Am Gravity, I Am That Against Which The Rocket Must Struggle, To Which Prehistoric Wastes Submit And Are Transmuted To The Very Substance Of History.