It may take a pastiche, a patch-work, a mixed up swathe of bastards to make right what’s in need of fixing. Have you ever seen a house, cousin, that’s not been bled of life or serenity that’s not starched and stagnant and dead? Have you ever seen a row of houses rotting, location breeds location, brother, we’ve all got neighbors and they’ve got shades to keep the inside apart from the out. But have you ever smelled a city, sister? A whole constant wrench of sour mashed together, stinking as one united solution. There is no one way, I say. We’re people, particulate, until we dissolve into only matter in the grave. Though this is not so sad, we resist it and smother our noses from the noxious breath of others, we keep our own inside, and cough into our elbows and remind our fellow men to do the same.

(An ugly start here. I just felt it must be gotten out of the way. So, fresh pages away. After all, my love, we’ll let some into our homes. We’ll find time for a few of the strangers who in fact come from the rotten outside.)