where the workers have no factories

An apparently homeless old man rests in the doorway of a dingy stone unclearly vacant commercial building in the early morning. Across the street from him is a monolithic block of faded and half heartedly maintained row houses. Every now and again one of the homes is boarded up, a hint of despair amongst the sad repetition of the facades. A ray of dawn sunshine flashes through the somber clouds and dances briefly along the houses. The man takes a long pull from a stainless steel flask concealed in his jacket and goes back to contemplating possible pasts.

A pilgrim happens upon a cerulean pool. He kneels and watches reflections cross the water.

A young man stares at a photograph at one of the numerous exhibits in Atlanta’s gallery district. While the image is of a striking female figure, his gaze appears focused on ambiguous shapes of infinite probabilities in the background.

Two men in a late model nondescript car of indeterminate origin, possibly of foreign manufacture, are driving along a rural four lane divided highway. Trees flash by and the occasional marker of generica, such as an Exxon Station or McDonalds, jumps up out of the landscape and rapidly shrinks in the rearview. On occasion, the passenger jots something in red pen on a notepad. The men are talking.

“All that fake tan shit pisses me off. What I really dig is alabaster skin untouched by the sun. That drives me wild.”

“A blonde eyed black is what I like.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

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