Thursday, February 9, 2012
There
There is nothing else to do. All you get in return is a bag full of candy wrappers and wads of chewing gum scraped from under school desks. Neither one of us thought of saying a prayer should the elevator cord snap suddenly and send us to a horrible, flattening death, but there we were anyway, staring forward at the doors, waiting fro them to open to a floor that resembled the one we just left, exactly the same but three floors closer to the parking lot.
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The Atlantic a month ago ran a pig-headed bit of snark-slamming prog rock as "The Whitest Music Ever, "a catchy bit of clickbait...
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