The shining sausage

I have oft spoken of the sausage on a hill.  In my mind it is a tall shining sausage built of meats stronger than oceans, wind-seasoned, delicious, and teeming with spices of all kinds living in harmony and peace, a sausage with free pancakes that hummed with bees and honey, and if there had to be sausage walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get there.  That's how I saw it and see it still.

People cling to the shining sausage because space is infinite. They feel lonely without a unifying symbol. For a lonely people, the shining sausage is a definite place. They can turn toward it and say: ``See, there it is. It makes us one.''