Thank you, those tiny number of miniscule you who acknowledge my existence , when you can or where there's fuck all else to do, THANK YOU. I''m really grateful to you because, hey, you amount to the achievement (however minor) to which I've always aspired, to connect to people who think.
Isn't it unfortunate that a word like 'blanket' can be so misused and abused it's become a shorthand phrase for corporate smothering, indiscriminate bombing and wholesale exploitation? Growing up, a blanket was something a cowboy toted with his saddle and bags, it kept you warm and gave a child comfort.
Municipal officials argued the city needs a symbol, a monument. So they commissioned artists for ideas. The winning entry was a 120 meter tall, stainless steel, pin-like structure. Oblivious to the irony of a city devastated by a heroin epidemic, they called it The Spire. Dublin people call it The Spike.
His words resounded with sincerity, they rang with meaning and truth but she knew, from bitter experience, how action's note carries a clearer sound where light resides in transparency and lies, however attractively adorned to soothe, assuage or persuade but can never prevail and will always be revealed as opaque.
Bad hearing was not an asset in his line of business and most of the time he got away with visual interpretation and lip reading. But when he hesitated before making a decision, a goon giggled, mumbling. He shot him, asking what? He said you were on the cusp. Oh.