I woke up last week and someone had parked a miniature trailer on my chest. A family was living there. Flapping laundry, rattling big wheels, and flying candy wrappers in the dust by day, barking dogs and blue flicker after dusk. I felt like objecting, but who can stop Progress? These tiny people are the engine of our great prosperity; and after all, does my body really belong to me? Does it belong to anyone? How can anyone own this temporary alliance of wild molecules, which will, one day, end up swirling around in the salty ocean?
Maybe it will rain, and the trailer will be washed away in a flood – or maybe the antics of tiny terrorists on their tiny TV will cause them to move to a safer place, like Canada. But now, right now, I dare not move a muscle. The little mother is singing her child to sleep.