After a week of war the picture is approaching it's final development.
Junk relics of time old people waiting to tell there story to any one who will listen.
are you willing to sit in a cloud of booze breath rotten teeth and listen to what they half to say.
The depression, numerous wars, children coming of age, changes in technology: who the fuck has a phone line in each room, there are on sub way tokens any more, nails in construction: now there is no wood and no nails unless it's in the floors, lead based paint great i love it sticks to any thing, closes lines throw that shit in the dryer pay your gas bill and call it a day.
junk thats fucking history the raw truth the untold story of ever day life the rise and fall the wave crashing.
never mind no one read this shit any ways junk it's all junk dirt and rubble in the shovels of the next generation of trash collectors and prostitutes of new media.
flash fucked in the face buy the next best thing leaving entranced zombies sole less and a lone craving something.
well there is nothing
just piles of junk in various stages of decomposition no different from there collectors.
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