1 January 1994

You find yourself sweating in a dark utility room seemingly overdressed for the occasion, a fuse in one hand, a misfiring lighter in the other. With nervousness and self doubt glance back to the rooms entrance (*ssNap* *SnaP* *sNp*) then to details of the operations planning (*SNAp* *ssnp* *SNaaap* *snap* *snNP*). Form another bead of sweat (*Snp* *ssNaP* *snp* *SNAP* ~ s t e a d y f l a m e ~ ) a moment for celebration (*s*p*a*r*k*s*) and day dream into the clauses, annexes and circular logic, of a well constructed legal document. The burning fuse departs sight. An escape is in order.

Cautiously examine the hallway. It is poorly lit and endless with evenly spaced rooms on one side and oddly spaced rooms on the other. Look left and right then left again. Exit the room, shut the door, walk briskly down the hall. Smells and sounds of human activity feather through door seams. Laughter is picked up and carried on the fabric of your suit. A crying baby is caught in the ear. The scent of food disrupts attention to your current position, with interfering memories so close and so dear. Stop. The next door on the left is the one to walk through. Pass through the door and into an open field of colors and infinite depth. Resume the brisk pace and quicken its speed, cross the river winding through trees. Greet the village of indigenous hill people "Buenos dias hermana! Buenos dias hermano!". Their looks of confusion are nothing to stop for. Exit the mountains to a church on the outskirts of town. The door is unlocked and opens to a class room of elementary school children. Walk aimlessly through the confines of the school room to enter sanctuaries of academia. Visit libraries containing great works of leading thought, while the burning fuse continues a path it has not forgot. Into buildings of politics and banks of finance you will blend, eventually arriving at the happiness of seeing an old friend. Take a moment and calm the nerves. Wipe the sweat from your brow and straighten your suit. Knock at the heavy door, produce the requested information, and wait for the cascade of opening locks to provide a passage to walk through. Wink to the guard, smile and shake hands with the right people. Appear photogenic and present a press release to the press for printing. You have done well. Take a vacation.

Not long after, a chain of explosions thunder throughout the building, blowing out windows, releasing smoke and screams. Those in the street reply to their immediate physiological response, donate attention to a moment of awe, a collective look down at their wrist watches, another glance at the burning building, and resumption of their individual businesses.

Time goes on and the building burns, no fire trucks or police arrive, no investigations of suspects are tried. Pressure builds with solicitations for aid, while guards of the walls stare out to the orders in which they've been trained. Inevitably the locks are overwhelmed and the doors concede, a burst of youth, adults and elderly, spray into the street.

Time continues and the people construct shelters, while those of short attention span and busy lives note the requests for medical assistance, food and water. The people are scorned for taking space, working jobs and reducing property values. For being poor, contaminating the streets and living in squalid conditions. Their pleas are looked up and down and provided police, vigilantes and legislation, to escort them back into the burnt out hulls and pillaged lands of their origin.

At home there are ashes to live from, their quarters inhabited by strangers. Marked for development and inaccessible are the fertile lands and pristine waters. Attempts are made to rebuild from debris, which is tolerated in some instances, and met with forced dismantling in others. All the while justice is suspended just long enough for those who have acquired the peoples wealth to pass away, which never happens, or until it is taken back from the thieves who hold it at bay.

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