The Naked Broker: Party like it’s 1929
Oranges are not the only fruit and oblivion is not the only refuge: there’s always the handicapped toilet. I spent long periods in there this morning, wrestling with a dogged hangover, enjoying the warmth and comfort, the impossibility of being fired (in there at least; out here, it’s odds-on), the infinite possibility for sexual reverie and self-interference, the antiseptic calm.
Drenched in contemplation, I gazed at the floor beneath my feet. I noticed a crack in the tiles, spreading outwards and taking on the shape, even to this atheistic mind, of a cross. It was a spiritual moment.
This is a message from God whose existence Id
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