Fagen seems to leach from our consciousness altogether, a grotesque parody whom everybody is able to ignore. The last of the wetland is filled and trampled. New factories appear. They rumble and blaze around the clock, their wastes, odious and black, hang over the city like a sentence. My mother swoons in ecstasies of premonition.
People turn grim faced as the sky goes black and the sun recedes to a dull glow.
The land is gone. My mother wags her finger. My father becomes more and more irritable. Sundays are work days. Costs going up.