♞ Something, something, Death and taxes. Confucius.
[Voice]
[The voice heard sounds like a smoker's rasp, a monotone, which at first sounds like it originates from boredom, but is nothing but vexed.]
Eliza?
... I don't suppose there's anyone in this frequency? Shit.
Right. For the end of the world, it still looks a lot like Detroit to me.
[The voice heard sounds like a smoker's rasp, a monotone, which at first sounds like it originates from boredom, but is nothing but vexed.]
Eliza?
... I don't suppose there's anyone in this frequency? Shit.
Right. For the end of the world, it still looks a lot like Detroit to me.
[Have an Irish accent all up in your phone, Adam.]
Quite a number, actually. An' not quite Detroit. [A little sadder this time.] Not quite Boston, either.
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What the hell is this place?
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Hell sounds accurate, ta be quite honest.
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