One would have to have a mine of copper, and have been cold to the union's safety and wage pleas for a long while, and perhaps have amassed a cabinet of classical artifacts in a sound proof basement displayed on custom aluminum mesh grids, or have run for several city offices on a xenophobic, police-might, no more open container ticket, to hear the clean Rhone water rushing below and not to think of the literature of the sanatorium, or restorative strolls along the lake past diplomatic estates, of the institution of the nanny, of the institution of the affair, of French dressing coming without asking for it and of the smell of hay on trains. From the observation rail they look down toward my seat. "Did you say something?" "Nothing, no it's fine."
[page 30, The Lobe (Roof Books, 2002)]