There should be a guy who every morning rides his bicycle down to the main street and sets up a small glass case of beautiful cakes he has made. He should sell the cakes at a reasonable price to whoever comes. The cakes should be both beautiful and inspiring. They should be sumptuously iced and decorated with fruits and sugared flowers which are not only lovely to behold but genuinely delicious. He should sit on a low half wall and read a newspaper folded into quarters until the cakes are all sold. As soon as the last one is sold he should tie the glass case to the back of his bike and cycle to the market to buy fresh eggs and flour, chocolate, fruit, all the things he needs to make cakes for tomorrow. And then he should ride his bicycle home, where he should kiss the top of the low door frame leading into his widowerâs cottage because it will always remind him of her. And then he makes the cakes for the next day. Now thatâs what should happen. It should be happening already, in towns all over the country. Hell, all over the world. If itâs not then fuck it. Let the bombs fall. Let them turn the beaches to glass. Return us to hunter gatherers, cowering in caves. Miserable dirty people dying of cold when it rains for too long. Let us slowly work our way back up if we canât get even that part right when it should be so obvious. See if the next crop are smarter. And if they arenât then try again. As long as it takes. Let our distant descendents hide in the shadows of the brick walls we built. I donât think thatâs too extreme
