I can sit here in Santa Monica and tell you stories. Stories of people as myrid as the thoughts they all contain. The each stand as representatives, individual parts of a collected volume of dreams unfullfilled and potentials not realized. Each has a story, filed and cataloged and left here to serve out thier climaxes in the way it was meant to be. Set in stark contrast to the masses of consumer idolitry. The concrete and glass monuments of capitalism and self indulgence. As if in some form of a mexican stand off they both take thier places in front of each other. Face to face, challenging one another as if questioning the others right to exsist. "Is it us cries" the human novellas. Their very words thrown back at them in the echoed response from the symbols of modern materialism. ...... {to be continued??}
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