Several provocateurs milled about the quiet square, unable to goad the tranquilized mob into illegal action, or even legal action. Over by the soda-stand a woman yelled, then apologized. People, afraid to wave their arms, too tired to scream the words to a chant written 3,000 years ago and lately heard on a government ad for mustard gas lollipops, squeezed their way past the dioxin hoagie-stand. Over by the massage table a woman yelled, then apologized. Children took naps in the shade cast by slumbering Weathermen, as a cool breeze carried away a leaflet advertising “Desire Bagels with Free Holes.” Then abruptly a woman yelled, and (more abruptly) she apologized, and found a shadow to retreat into. A policeman coughed, and several students (lost on their way to the Young Statesman rally) dropped dead amongst the poppy blossoms that had grown up about the lectern of the narcoleptic anti-action action committee spokesperson, who had forgotten to speak in his hurry to communicate an idea already implanted in the sleeping audience’s communal head, but rejected. I saw a rat on the face of a beautiful insurrectionist who was holding up a sign that said “Free the Rothschilds!” I saw two black flies dreaming of Grover Cleveland kissing a Zulu warrior in Versailles, where a thousand bonfires turned baby blue and went out to promote an improved brand of darkness. A woman yelled, then apologized.