Value In The End


The city at night. Junkies, whores, a third shift worker done with the factory and looking for eggs and bacon to line his belly so he can curl into backwards sleep, the day outside unable to pierce his blanket-draped windows.

The rattle in the dumpster might be rats or men.

They share a common purpose, and even desperation, though if you are honest you must admit the rat is better equipped.

The man, though, possesses a wisdom that will only have value at the end of the world, an end he hopes for with vehement repetition.

A Mantra.

A prayer.


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