we might just make it through this thing alive
or we might just settle for the free dinette set
Six years ago, an intern working for a major conglomerate became disgruntled with his current employer and decided to go into business for himself. He'd seen the company secrets and had worked on their future developments and he knew he could do it better. Plus, he wanted a chance to treat his employees better and to ensure better business practices. He quit and took some of the best workers with him to set out on what could either be the biggest blunder of his life or the start of a major fiscal empire. On the way to his train stop he became a hood ornament for a young single mother's sport utility vehicle as she raced to her daughter Tiffany's soccer practice, her cell phone already dialing the number for her gynecologist.
People are not, by their very nature, reliable in any sort. Physically we can not remember even a small percent of what we see and hear, our memories fade away or are white washed by our current feelings about the past. Further beyond that, we are capable of misleading and altering the truth, whereby even your best friend could lie to you. Humans are unpredictable, and should therefore not be trusted. The only thing that you can truly rely on in a person's life, the only thing that is worth banking on is that sooner or later we'll all be decomposing somewhere. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, eventually they'll all be giving back to the nitrogen cycle. Some people say life is a joke, the only funny part is we all have the exact same punch line.
The front steps to the warehouse were cracking, on the left side were holes where a steel handrail presumably stood. The main door hung open on its hinges, looking rather like a child's attempt at a play fort than a veritable security benefit. Everywhere oxidation left streaks of rust, the entire outside of the building was a hooker with smeared make up, the tears running down into pools of mucus and cocaine under a sun burnt nose. This place had been hailed as one of the city's "thousand points of light" by a charismatic politician, his mind always floating gingerly to the young boy tied to a chair in room 314 of the Sheraton Rama Hotel, which had been booked under the name "Phillip Macedon" for several weeks. Where nimble fingers once grafted copper to silicone, where tired hands had once soldered wrought iron to frameworks, where great minds had once beheld the sparkling jewel of hope in a glass tube, green shoots of ivy now strangle its gentle slopes and rigid corners, fresh grass forces its way from under concrete, and nests of birds cover the rest with a layer of excrement.
For a good time call: 617-817-1987
Six years ago, an intern working for a major conglomerate became disgruntled with his current employer and decided to go into business for himself. He'd seen the company secrets and had worked on their future developments and he knew he could do it better. Plus, he wanted a chance to treat his employees better and to ensure better business practices. He quit and took some of the best workers with him to set out on what could either be the biggest blunder of his life or the start of a major fiscal empire. On the way to his train stop he became a hood ornament for a young single mother's sport utility vehicle as she raced to her daughter Tiffany's soccer practice, her cell phone already dialing the number for her gynecologist.
People are not, by their very nature, reliable in any sort. Physically we can not remember even a small percent of what we see and hear, our memories fade away or are white washed by our current feelings about the past. Further beyond that, we are capable of misleading and altering the truth, whereby even your best friend could lie to you. Humans are unpredictable, and should therefore not be trusted. The only thing that you can truly rely on in a person's life, the only thing that is worth banking on is that sooner or later we'll all be decomposing somewhere. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, eventually they'll all be giving back to the nitrogen cycle. Some people say life is a joke, the only funny part is we all have the exact same punch line.
The front steps to the warehouse were cracking, on the left side were holes where a steel handrail presumably stood. The main door hung open on its hinges, looking rather like a child's attempt at a play fort than a veritable security benefit. Everywhere oxidation left streaks of rust, the entire outside of the building was a hooker with smeared make up, the tears running down into pools of mucus and cocaine under a sun burnt nose. This place had been hailed as one of the city's "thousand points of light" by a charismatic politician, his mind always floating gingerly to the young boy tied to a chair in room 314 of the Sheraton Rama Hotel, which had been booked under the name "Phillip Macedon" for several weeks. Where nimble fingers once grafted copper to silicone, where tired hands had once soldered wrought iron to frameworks, where great minds had once beheld the sparkling jewel of hope in a glass tube, green shoots of ivy now strangle its gentle slopes and rigid corners, fresh grass forces its way from under concrete, and nests of birds cover the rest with a layer of excrement.
For a good time call: 617-817-1987