When I was young, I was keen to study the fantastic architecture of the burning cities. I enrolled in a college run according to Blötzmannist principles. We were taught to build scale models of the more outlandish buildings, from paper and cardboard and gum, and to set fire to them and watch them burn, keeping a safe distance. Viewed through heavy duty hectorscopes, from behind the potted begonias and chrysanthemums in our workroom, the effect was astonishing. One could imagine oneself standing, windswept, upon the tor, watching from that high peak, with its glistening mere, the city in flames far below.

And when it was reduced to ashes and dust, what then? What then? Had we really been upon the tor, we would have no city to return to. As the smoke dispersed, would we have trooped down the far side of the tor and set out for new, undiscovered lands, to build and burn anew? Pimply students, we need not risk such adventure. We took our brooms and dustpans and swept up the ashes and then we left the workroom, laughing and babbling, heading across the lawn, with its glistening pond, for the cafeteria.

And as we gobbled and drank, the college janitor locked up his cupboard, hung his keys on the hook in the porch, and took the bus to the foot of the tor. Up he trudged to the top, and he sat by the glistening mere, and looked upon the city, and he wept.