As the helicopters provide the day's soundtrack to beatification timed—strategically?—to coincide with May Day, as if they were timekeepers for distant strikes unapologetic in "volatile" areas where death's the apparent remedy to be administered in the names of god, one really longs to hole up for a while underground in the desuetude of calcified acqueducts so echoous with nearer sensations as the jostling of the head and their gay graffitied walls so free from Benedictine and every other dogma.