Coaxing this thing into its active voice, filling the void in its purple dusk, requires will power – a kind of civic pride in the sharp-edged curb. It wants to speak, or be heard singing its name. It wants to climb, or be the summit. It creates a self-portrait, it becomes the caricature. Though it wants power it breeds the powerless. And we who bear witness babble endlessly, like poets, like crooners, like psychiatrists, lost in a glass-walled forest.