Unopened, the envelope hums. The vibrations only serve to make me continuosly aware of it. I suppose this could annoy the average person. Not me.
I care for the envelope. I think a lot of it. Glimpsing, I make sure it stays on the counter. Staring will only serve to remind me that it remains unopened.
Sure, I understand what the common thought must be. I get the screaming undertones. People, with their sweat-shined skin, demanding that I understand, as they walk towards and away, towards and away. Don't stop, I understand.
People, with their cold shoes stomping, masked faces. I understand.
They ask me about the envelope. They tell me about the envelope.
The website wasn't exactly my idea. It was conversation. It evolved.
I don't really want to talk about it, but I guess that's what I'm paying and laying here for. Remember, you bitch.
Lastwords.com is the topic again. The constant topic. The changer.
Remember is the girl. Unforgetable in life. Remember is not here, but she will always be here.
Lastwords.com is simple. Got something to say? Wanna make sure someone knows something? Wanna not be around when they do? Some things are much easier to say when you're dead.
As you probably know, the service business can be dreadful. A man must fulfill his promises in the service business if he intends to continue to provide expected services and make a fair living. Lastwords is a simple communication service. Expectations are spelled out in contract form. Overt. Ominous.
As pack animals, communication is essential to us. It is our life-blood, born from scrapes with death that could not be survived without cooperation and the mutual intention to continue living. But it can go the other way. Both ways, in fact.
Communication, as it turns out, can be the vehicle of pain, excruciating pain.
I care for the envelope. I think a lot of it. Glimpsing, I make sure it stays on the counter. Staring will only serve to remind me that it remains unopened.
Sure, I understand what the common thought must be. I get the screaming undertones. People, with their sweat-shined skin, demanding that I understand, as they walk towards and away, towards and away. Don't stop, I understand.
People, with their cold shoes stomping, masked faces. I understand.
They ask me about the envelope. They tell me about the envelope.
The website wasn't exactly my idea. It was conversation. It evolved.
I don't really want to talk about it, but I guess that's what I'm paying and laying here for. Remember, you bitch.
Lastwords.com is the topic again. The constant topic. The changer.
Remember is the girl. Unforgetable in life. Remember is not here, but she will always be here.
Lastwords.com is simple. Got something to say? Wanna make sure someone knows something? Wanna not be around when they do? Some things are much easier to say when you're dead.
As you probably know, the service business can be dreadful. A man must fulfill his promises in the service business if he intends to continue to provide expected services and make a fair living. Lastwords is a simple communication service. Expectations are spelled out in contract form. Overt. Ominous.
As pack animals, communication is essential to us. It is our life-blood, born from scrapes with death that could not be survived without cooperation and the mutual intention to continue living. But it can go the other way. Both ways, in fact.
Communication, as it turns out, can be the vehicle of pain, excruciating pain.
