Under an overpass, three pop tents glowed by the light of an open fire. Helicopter blades provided counterpoint to battering trains, and the penitentiary lights' haze suffocated the night's sky. Four or five men enjoyed the cool evening breeze on their backs, swirling with the radiant warmth of the flame under the city, on the grass, by the canal waters. These men, sometimes accompanied by a dog, built, idea by idea, a solution. The ichor of the city's wounds of vice will not mire the people forever. These men are victorious because they are right; because they contend for love.
Many on the forum have asked me, so here's my answer: a spoonful of lighter fluid. And you'll need to wash it out really well when you're done.