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I am amazed at the speed in which we scrape our red and smoking wreckage off the unforgettable pavement; at how normal life appears when the mess is cleared, the violence purged, the problems hidden by routine's warm, drab blanket. Whenever the twisted carnage is pushed within its safe folds life continues, obliviously anew. The vehicles single-mindedly speed on, unworried and unimpeded, toward their respective destinations. Whatever will we do when the clean up crew fails to arrive? What will we do when the smoke lingers, the bloodstains darken, and the bodies start to rot? How many desperate horns will dumbly honk in the future's bedlam?