I remember Clayton, where respect for the welfare of cars took precedence over that of humans. It seemed to be the American way. Conversations were three storeys high and stretched both ways to the horizon. Perspectives changed colour every ten seconds, becoming more interesting with the sound off. Stars got in the way of the stars, their brief lives made briefer when we fell asleep. Making love involved voluntaries of random randy car horns. Going home was considerably more realistic, rows of street lights and a stationary moon. A university was being built from the ground up, ready some June.