“This, Mr. Mano, is beautiful Fern Valley.”
My God, beautiful? A filing cabinet has more aesthetic voltage. Stacked one atop another, four squares high— a block-long granite ice-cube tray on its side. The dead, pigeonholed. Mausolea bulk like a low-income housing development over the abused, suburban countryside. All it needs: a couple washlines, some TV antennae, your old grandma leaning out a window on her elbows. Man, heights scare me to death. It’s the apartment dweller’s nightmare necropolis: a Big Condominium in the Sky.
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