He just ran across the field bulldozing everyone over.

And yet, they pulsed and glowed and shimmied and flared and stared at you, just like now—staring in at his and Whitey's own lights as they blipped past on the expressway, just one more set of red and yellow lights streaking along amid a current of red and yellow lights that blipped, blipped, blipped through an unremarkable Sunday dusk.

Visit whenever you want to.

As Edward Shils commented, “If there's a bad idea out there—Trotskyism, Reichism, Steinerism—leave it to our friend Saul to swallow it.”