I don't know what I was thinking, some kind
of mental glitch. I carried forth the wrong pail
and the wrong water. The shovel was the incorrect
shovel, and even this Brooklyn pasture was wrong.
Now, two hundred years later, this place is all
gone. I am an old man who cannot see - but for
the sunlight and for the memories of me. All these
people, they have learned now what to call their
things : Brueklin passage is over, the running waters
are gone, and only their foul slivers of filth and
steel remain. Despoliation and Ruination, at the
corner of, is where I be. Can you explain?