I learned she hadn’t told me everything the first time I visited a dome. It had take me so long to squeeze through the crack in the wall of the dome I’d left, but the wall of the dome I visited was paper thin. In one step, I was inside.
The inside was filled with neat houses, arranged along streets. Well kept lawns, flowerbeds, big cars and trucks in all the driveways. All the people dressed similarly, had similar haircuts, and similar behavior. It was like where I’d come from.
But the dome’s wall was covered with black, painted letters. The way the people in that dome felt about everything they hated, or didn’t understand, or were afraid of, was painted on the wall of the dome.
It was an insight I didn’t want.
I went back outside, where it was safe, beautiful, and those hatreds and fears were gone.