In the hard-edged town the form that the light takes is like a trickle down. Some things it will filter out to soften the faces of the angry men who still walk around, who will walk around in the harvest night of a suitcase town. I fear the pace of change. I fear the face of change. I fear the pace of change. Something in the air tastes of strange enough. Everybody must go. Everybody must swear an oath to leave. I heard it on the radio. (That's how I know.)