In Search of a Paper Bag

The hallways will always get longer, lined with pictures of former supervisors and chiefs of staff, their facial hair strange and foreign to modern eyes. Linoleum echos of footsteps on hard, waxed surfaces reverberate. Cold florescence. An edifice. A monolith.

One day it will be our faces on the wall. Distant memories. Questionable fashion choices. Yet the edifice remains.

(It was the Greeks who got it right, not Shakespeare. Our tragedies are not the faults of fatal flaws. They are the inevitable results of monolithic, immovable forces of nature.)