“Thanks for calling me cheap! It’s not that. I just don’t care for the company. A bunch of Communists plying their propaganda art. I understand poets get paid by the line now. So you get these poems that look like vertical poles. One-word and two-word lines. Great art! No thanks!” Poor Michelangelo would never see the inside of it now. I probably won’t either. Restore something like this? Never!
By the time I got to the clinic, it stopped snowing, but the wind kept at it, blowing fine powder across the sidewalk. As I walked through the door, two men were carrying someone in a blanket. The underside of the blanket dripped with blood. Like the last time, the clinic was filled to capacity with the wounded. Many were lying on stretchers or on the stone tiles. Some were covered with a sheet.
