Once I had a dream about a factory. I dreamt of shining smoke stacks piercing the evening horizons like thorns from a lizard’s back. Inside there were work men, side by side work women, all being led by a cruel and curmudgeonly overseer, I never got their name. They were making Garfield plushes. Of all the things to produce, it had to be Garfield Plushes. I left the work room and walked out into the courtyard. When I took another moment to gaze back up at the auburn spring sky I couldn’t help but let a primal wail slip from my lips. Where in this cold grey world is there room for public access light-news broadcast, covering the week’s top stories? And somewhere out there a child wakes and cries. The Struggle.