Those caged vans with the lights, sirens, wheels coupled to chassis, pouring down the street carrying Hemingway’s dead. You beneath those sucking sodium arc lamps proffered at gas stations and used car lots. In this case, the former. Ancient bones compressed, melted or something, and sent to the surface to be sucked up and given over to moments such as these. Though I wouldn’t want to see an ambulance any other way, not really. They are masters who return chaos to its leash. The grizzly. The macabre. The stunning. Repackaged and sent unfathomably through a rain soaked evening in the back of what looks like a wheeled acid trip. Traffic lights all green. Pedestrian mouths slack with the mild thought that the sky is perspiring and I must find cover. The Great Mind is rent apart, torn from its reality just as those injured were torn from theirs. To bear witness is an act requiring courage; depth and clarity as afterthought or responsibility.
