The first paragraph goes like this:
I have to admit, it was beautiful. The spit-shined soldiers doffed their black peaked caps just like they were ordered to, exposing their razor-cut pates to the gentle rain. The lacrimose bureaucrats, shuffling along the parapet with a studied pathos, mumbled among themselves about the latest poll numbers burning a hole in the front pages. And there I was, an old anarchist who knew too much and cared too little, sprawled on the marbled steps of St. Stephen's, leaking blood in artful pools amid shattered limbs no one was going to put back together.