Reluctantly she is impressed. By the dimensions of it all, it is so big! And so systematic and orderly, an illusion that we have complete control. A frightening beauty in the technique.

The vehicles towering over them up close, like monster trucks, they look like toy cars from here. She sees little people dressed in orange, they seem to be standing still. Little Playmo figures, there on the giant shelves, like oversized steps, down into the earth's interior. 

As if we're gutting the Earth, she thinks, popping open her belly, like a moose slaughter, we're gutting the Earth -- with huge, yellow machines. Cutting up the carcass, taking out the tenderloin. Leaving the remains, exposed to the elements. 

But she doesn't say that.

– It's a bit... nice, in an ugly way, you know, she says and tries to smile. 

 Don't want to be difficult. Trying to breathe with your belly and listen, trying to see what others see. Understand. 

 – Or... it's ugly, but also fascinating. 

She turns away.

– Like an onion, she thinks, layer by layer we peel the earth. First we cut down the trees, then we scrape away the soil, then we set off on the bedrock. While the tears flow. At least for some.

But she doesn't say that either.