00:34
How rough the feel of denim against bark must be. Yes, I should hardly know how it feels. How I might fair without its invention? Yes, would it even be possible? I suppose corduroy my fair, though its tendency to snag in such situations can be a hinderance.
Several minutes pass with no great event in human history. Though my craft of 'hidden speculation' is the business of being intrigued without ever quite being enlightened, all this sustained suspense leaves me, the spectator, hungry for some period of sustained action.
My busy scratching of pencil to paper, or, an attempt to end the suspense myself, is interrupted by a particularly curious activity. Finally, what would be an otherwise lost minute of human history! Justification!
Below, a discarded, war-torn couch lies on the curb waiting for the fated thief to save it from an unwanted, bone-crushing fate.
The unnatural lighting allows for minimal upward visibility as a blue, Ford pick-up-truck halts. Four youths in the hight of their existence jostle out.
The flop test: it's a winner.
Collecting like flies to a corpse, mismatched arms hoist the carcass into the Ford's bed.
Rustling, a click.
Pause.
Flash.
"I walk by that tree every day and I don't think it's once taken a picture of me."
And when it's over and done with, it amounts to nothing.
Several minutes pass with no great event in human history. Though my craft of 'hidden speculation' is the business of being intrigued without ever quite being enlightened, all this sustained suspense leaves me, the spectator, hungry for some period of sustained action.
My busy scratching of pencil to paper, or, an attempt to end the suspense myself, is interrupted by a particularly curious activity. Finally, what would be an otherwise lost minute of human history! Justification!
Below, a discarded, war-torn couch lies on the curb waiting for the fated thief to save it from an unwanted, bone-crushing fate.
The unnatural lighting allows for minimal upward visibility as a blue, Ford pick-up-truck halts. Four youths in the hight of their existence jostle out.
The flop test: it's a winner.
Collecting like flies to a corpse, mismatched arms hoist the carcass into the Ford's bed.
Rustling, a click.
Pause.
Flash.
"I walk by that tree every day and I don't think it's once taken a picture of me."
And when it's over and done with, it amounts to nothing.