There's something about Coney Island. The sadness is built in. Dressed up in filth and grit, it courts the ghosts of a faded resort and the living lonely hearts that can feel them standing on the splintered boardwalk and laughing down by the surf. The carnival oozes on. The toothless barkers. The sad-eyed ride operators. The pock-marked faces behind the food counters. What a broken scene, an achy mess that disintegrates in Brooklyn's corner of the universe. The developers are coming, but they can't build over that kind of damage. They can't remove that kind of hurt.