It's a harsh wind that blows across the acreage of that summer, misspent youth. There is the harsh angle of attack. A willow shades the stranger in the tomb. The departing guest laughs one more time and, again, a little too loudly, because he's given to overplaying sincerity. The sordid town sports a factory plume: the empty streets could be laid out to "bring to life" a famous painting of desolate places. Imagine, then, a virgin alone on the travel-poster beach. The camera evaluates her body fat, and a machine recommends a change of diet. She is beautiful, not hopelessly stupid; she is the listless feeling that descends upon the plain and leaves a plaque to commemorate your conception. A vibration shakes the bones as the train picks up speed and worlds rush past the dirty window.