On phase-transition suspensions

Dear Slush,

I look on you, lying in the street, cold and obscenely fluid. I look on you thus, and think to myself "in the beginning, it was not so". Once you were fair and care-free, innocent and pure; now you have been stained with the grime underfoot, the soot of our automobiles and industrial transport. You, who have fallen not in the fields, not on the good earth, but in the road, you have been shoved together indiscriminately, you have been scraped apart without mercy, you have been poisoned with halides and alkali and akalines, in the hopes that your very constitution will be undone.

I don't know what to think.

A pedestrian