Wednesday, August 23, 2006

In the Park, on our backs, with the multilingual murmur of the crowd around us. There was a strange cloud like a claw mark, soon absorbed into the night. And then planes and planes, some high, some low. Helicopters. People stepped single-file along the narrow track between the blankets, deliberate, like mountaineers. Out of nothing there arose the hum of strings and the opera being performed drifted over us like haze.

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