The giant red button appeared in the middle of San Francisco, on the freshly mowed lawn of the Civic Center Plaza, one morning in May. Tall and wide as Civic Hall it stood, with words rippling in luminous waves across its surface: Press here to pause.

Pause what? some asked, but others knew, the hunger so strong it could carve mountains to bone: a temporary stay of self-annihilation. Slow it all down, we’d begged into the ether, until we can step rightly forward, certain that the way leads true.

Lobbyists objected; police barriers were erected; punishments were foretold; but these were no match for the delirious masses, whose desperation broke through in a biblical wave. The button shuddered and groaned under the weight of these heaving seething souls, until finally the button sighed, succumbing.

Dazed and drained the people slid from the limb-tangled pile. Did it work? we asked with moon-bright eyes, bruised and hopeful under blue-wisped sky.

New letters rippled: Thank you for your feedback.

And so? we cried, wild with longing. And then?