I can’t get away from it. Felted-up reenactors shoving a great fake crate of it into the Harbor and jeering. After the tour group leaves, they fish it back out and towel it off, unbutton their waistcoats to smoke. At the nearby counter-service place, there are two jars next to the register, and dropping bills into one or the other is how we affirm our commitments—why should we ever pay decently, unless it occurs in this fever of rivalry that passes for fun? What are our choices and might I suggest LESS IS MORE against MORE IS MORE? Or IT COULD HAPPEN ANY TIME against IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME? Or how about THIS VIOLENCE FOREVER UNDOES A PERSON against THAT CONTENTION CAN ONLY BE ROOTED IN THE RETROGRADE VIEW THAT A WOMAN IS EITHER INTACT OR SHE’S NOT? I always thought I’d made peace with THIS PLANET, and yet here I am shoving all my cash in the jar marked ANYPLACE ELSE. There isn’t enough money in the world.