Now entering the ninth circle of typographic hell:
A little farther along, Beatrice encounters no shortage of technology, and enough open staggered blinking neon signs to set off an epileptic fit:
That’s lettering, alright. Lots and lots of letters. Can’t argue with that. Lots of drop shadows. Lots of logos. Lots of shiny, sparkly things.
Beatrice continues along the un-walkable boulevard into the core of a city despised by its own residents. A local matriarch describes what it would take to persuade her to revisit her girlhood downtown, “A million dollars!” Another shudders when asked about changing her two-minute driving commute into a walk, “Not for me.”
In the same geographically small state, the governor evocatively ponders how tragic it would be if no one wanted to come to America:
Maybe all we need is architecture to transform urban spaces. But if historic architecture is the strength of your downtown historic district, maybe we also need to increase our visual literacy and re-de-sign our communities:
Beatrice wonders how many pomegranate seeds she will need to eat this time. Oh, wait. That was Persephone. Confusing my mythologies, my generations, my iterations. Not for the first time in five years, Beatrice wonders, where’s my WPA?
Methinks Beatrice never even knew Dante’s name.