Yesterday I saw a pretty girl walking the Embarcadero, naked but for a bicycle and body paint. She ignored the cruise ship crowds as the bright sunshine kissed her. She didn't look happy, she didn't look sad, she just looked like she was not with friends. I hoped she would soon find them.

I guess that, besides herself, the most beautiful thing was that no one was harassing her.

We are between movements, the second and third.

The first was full of fear and sadness and promises crashing like thunder.

The second, a pastoral symphony, beautiful harmonies, the gliding of birds, fires occasionally set in the meadow.

The third traditionally ties them all together in newer and stronger themes but our film is too noir for that, and all we see are crashing waves, ships lost at sea, racing engines that won't start, flammable liquids spilled in the dust, and a runway with two sleek airplanes primed for takeoff, all our prayers and hopes and dreams set securely in the luggage compartment or waiting hopefully at the windows.