That you can take something out of this earth and build with it a dream, that persists in spite of rust. The power of form to convey feeling. A concensus reality. Spirit. Like the bold, sweeping lines of charcoal antelope, moving in the flicker of torchlight. Just tiny bits of carbon, amassed for a time in patterns suggesting edges and shadow. A fairy tale story made of feathers, grass and spit. Like those great, fragile towers that vanished in a cloud of dust. Sugar-skull cities and papier-mâché corpses. A zombie remnant of a Detroit army chock full of promises from the crazy age of happy atoms. Boy howdy.
o O o