“All of these people come here everyday,” said Michel. “They pour their emotions into the art. They love, or they hate, or they are overcome with nostalgia. Do you think those emotions just vanish when they are released? Where do you think they go?”
Michel had been trying to convince me for over an hour that the glass pyramid was a lens for emotional energy, and could focus and channel it into whatever wish your heart desires.
“Fine,” I said, trying to think of the most unlikely thing I could wish for. “Then I wish it to snow in July.”