One grasps in a weighted moment the rudiments of power generation. The bloom flees the techno-rose in a noisy, dislocating rush. All the sleek bullshit we surround ourselves with, the expertly tooled machines with the clean lines and miraculous solid-state guts; computers, HD idiot screens, wondrous multi-personality cell phones, toasters that quietly whisper news of the bread being cooked just so; you glimpse in a bemused and horrified flash the fucked truth. These glossy self-impressed gizmos are beholden to coal and shale, fossil-driven accoutrements that might just as well have their own exhaust pipes. You switch on your curvaceous computer and somewhere a starling is mummified in soot and falls, fluttering helplessly, to the sidewalk. The ass-end of your Mac is a smokestack.