A blog of gathered dust, left at the cleaner’s mercy

Now if the cleaner’s mercy hadn’t existed at the corner of the rubble filled track, the one leading onto the ring road next to the moody hen pub, where couples often pull up in their cars and check their flies, hair and makeup, making sure they look less ruffled after fucking or being fucked. You know the spot?

If the cleaner’s mercy hadn’t existed, the giver of truth wouldn’t have had the perfect place to hide his equipment, wouldn’t have been able to start and keep a record of that which gave a moment of clarity to a journey less than fine. A journey that would take a lifetime to uncover…but not that of the cleaner.

In the interest of catching mankind with his flies down or with a hair out of place whilst so busy desperately projecting a life of perfection unto the cosmos.

The Twenty First Tribe

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