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"Some good advice: Don't look at someone anywhere but in their eyes, Don't speak with a false voice, Don't use excuses to justify crimes, Don't blame others for your own poverty, Don't project your flaws upon others, Don't act rich when you're not, Don't be a traitor to your country, Don't take credit for someone else's achievements, Don't say anything that doesn't make sense ever again." Bahama 4:06

"An evil robot sat in an apartment, studying himself and his surroundings. The walls were bleak, the light was grayish and dull outside. A refrigerator hummed gently in the kitchen, as the flicker of a television was the only distraction from his bare living quarters. The robot sat on the couch, paint peeling off the walls, and consented to immerse himself in the television's static glow. Snorting in discontent, he changed through the few barely visible channels on the television. To be aware, he knew, was a sin in this world. He knew only to be critical. He knew only to be vain. Then he might be on the television himself... After a few minutes of watching a television advertisement, the robot left the flickering screen and went to examine himself in a mirror. The hard eyes. The swollen chest. The voice that was so gruff. They are training him to be these things. They are training him to obey.   The robot glared up and down the mirror, daring it to look back. And he is, and he did. Going back to the television, the robot sat down and stared at what he should be again. The television flickered as his eyes grew heavy. going braindead... mind shutting down... mind slave routine activating... television watching commencing... 'Coming up next, Life! What are your favorite flavors? Right here on CUL..."

"Modern psychiatry is the arm of the industrialized system that condemns intelligence, individuality, sexuality, and youth  all as mental illnesses. Psychiatrists, nowadays, are nothing more than witch doctors, literally voting in groups on what mental diseases actually exist. All after some massive pharmaceutical conglomerate pays their rent, of course. These corrupt doctors swear by their funders, asserting that: "Mental illness is a permanent chemical imbalance and must therefore be treated with chemicals throughout the remainder of a person's life." Something anyone with a rational brain on their shoulders would know is utter stupidity to begin with! These shrinks, here is what they do: Sling the newest fancy chemical pill at their patients who have actual, real-world problems and issues, and subscribe them to a dogma of chemical ingestion and obedience for the rest of their natural lives. All because you have questioned the system in some way. Do the chemicals cure me, or are you glorified drug dealers who act inimically to anyone who resists a totalitarian regime? Modern psychiatrists are stooges that anybody with a shred of intelligence would discount immediately. Fortunately, no psychiatrists possess that trait, nor does anybody else in the psychiatric industry whatsoever. All, naturally, netting the corporate sector trillions of dollars a week in selling pills and needles and giving them an excuse to dope up the population with sludge to boot. It's amazing how people buy into this corporate garbage, doctors and all. All of these doctors are as scared as the next guy, all completely owned by the society around them, just with generally bigger paychecks. And, of course, it is more insidious than just making money. It is an issue of control. Those who do not conform are diagnosed as insane and medicated. And that trend is just getting started. New diseases are springing up left and right from the American Psychiatric Association (APA) trying to create new things for their parent pharmaceutical companies to treat. Sooner or later there is a drug for every mood, everyone is numb, brain-dead, and obedient, and these pills are mandatory for every citizen. If these are the people you look to with your problems, God help you, it is the blind leading the blind. We are a society of madmen. Mimicking, faceless, robots of obedience, sparking and whirring machines of imitation, with no true personality or soul left. And there is no pill for that."

"I'm just driving. And thinking... There's a thought for you. There's a thing out there, a thing you have, a thing that helps you think. Only some people have them. It goes on and on. The symmetry, the flashing lights, out here on the road. That's when you see them. It's dusky. The cars drive by, one by one, and you see them go by. But there's something wrong. There's not a thought, not a feeling, just a strange buzzing. And things go on. But you notice. And you surely do. I don't know how they got that way. The ones that don't have them, these things. It's like something has shut their mind down, created them as zombies, with no thought or sentiment left. They just go by, plain as a breeze. And you don't rile them up, or a shitstorm happens. Just don't. Just let them go by. I've seen them. The little houses, with glowing lights. They just sit there, idling in its glow, not letting a thought go by them. Because they have none. They just sit there and stare. You can see them, from the road, but it's not so much like this. You have to look carefully. I wonder about it. Why sit and stare? There's no point to it. I've seen what they become. Like screen death occurs, and they just go down like that. Sitting, staring. Sitting, staring. And they just want more. And they just go on and on like that. Shoveling it into their faces. Gluttonous. With no mind or thoughts left. Like screen zombies... Oh, there's a little left of that imitation. When they see something on the screen, and later they know how to imitate it. It's not so high. They just pick out a character and sell it, whatever it is. Just don't mind them. Just know it's imitation. And it seems like they have a braindead mind. Like I said earlier, it's a car, it's a road. Just let them go by. There isn't much else to it. We have a thing, they don't. A thing in our mind, that knows it's there. A thing that helps us think, and feel, and know we're alive. They don't have that. Screen zombies . That's all there is to it. Don't let them rile you up. Remember, it's just imitation. I'll go back to my driving. Watching the cars go by, wondering what's in them. Thinking, feeling, as I have a right to do. It's still dusky. I think I'll enjoy my night."

"This will be over most of your heads. Most of you are weak. Most of you are brain-washed by a malevolent society. Most of you will never know the true meaning of the word. But here it is none-the-less. 'Love is the one true god.' Did I get it from Bill Hicks? No. But I agreed with him when he said it. When any of the few enlightened I have heard have said it. Nietzsche: 'Anything done out of love is beyond good and evil.'   I will not speak of the hippies. Those are weak minds, utterly dependent on chemicals to gain such temporary and unearned insights. They make a mockery of it with their complacence and slovenliness. And if you think your piddling religion is on to this fact because they had to wrap their slave-dogma in something nice...you're wrong. This force is far and above most of your heads, most of your minds, reduced to shitty day-time movies and cut-out hearts.   Fluffy pink shapes and overly wrapped chocolates. This is what you think of. This energy, this force, this existence is so far beyond your comprehension I shudder to think of your attempts to comprehend it. It is a force, one that governs the universe. One that is  the universe. What makes the planets revolve around their stars, the stars their galaxies, and the galaxies turn in the infinite void? What gives you sight, breath, life, existence, what is you? This. Yet it is this force, this idea, which you all so blatantly and bluntly betray for the sake of your complacence and conformity to a society which scorns such things. To truly possess this force, to be this force, in this world, means unfathomable fighting and resistance. To everything. Especially society. That one God of yours that you all truly worship, conformity to the herd. It is this that you sacrifice to become so conformed. Women, with your plasticity and your promiscuity and your lack of soul, it is this which you have betrayed to become what you are. Men, so weak and foolish and controlled, drooling and desperate at the idea of very skin, it is this which you have forsaken. And you have all become droids in the process. Drones. You have forsaken the energy that has given you life, the energy you once were. Now you are a mockery, a shell. Nothing, truly. But a collection of particles destined to corrode and break down over time. No purpose, no identity, and no existence. All because you immediately surrendered without a second thought when the tribe, when the herd, challenged you. You forsook your soul, your very soul, for the sake of that treacherous fear. And you all do so willingly and cheerfully. Such is the price of weakness. This force turns the sun, opens the flowers, gives you sight, gives you breath, lets you exist. And you treat it as a child's toy, a fascination to be played with. And you behave accordingly. Sex is a game to you, this demonstration of one's love, something to be thrown around and enjoyed because it's fun. So you treat the essence of existence. Instead of revering it, you treat it like a game. As close to God as you fools shall ever see. And it shows in that you become nothing more than foolish mechanisms, sparking and fading and whirring, until life is snatched angrily from your corrupted fingers. From your corrupted, irreverent, ungrateful, foolish, fingers. And you will fade into dust, a fool, all in all. Your soul not taken from you, as you betrayed it yourself, forsook it yourself, a decision you made in your own life, because it would be easier than fighting. Sure. At first. While your body still kicks, and your heart still pumps. Then you will see what a foolish, what an atrociously foolish, bargain you have made. A few easier years in a single life, for the destruction of your soul. And you empty shells, you do such a good job, a good job of hiding that fact, of hiding that treacherous fear. That cowardly nature, even from yourselves, of pasting that soulless, purposeless smile on your faces. Marching to your ignominious doom with the rest of your foolishly smiling cattle brethren. That which you called fluffy pink hearts, that which you called fun, like soulless idiot zombies, was the only true "God" you fools will have ever known. And you spit in its face. What doomed little creatures you will surely be. You have been brain-washed to see Love as weak, as paper hearts and tepid movies and a game to be played with, by a society that wants you weak and dumb, instead of a force that governs the universe. That is  the universe. And you have treated it accordingly, like weak idiot sheep. And a just fate awaits you, you hollow shells of things that were once men. And I pity you not. Love is not just strong. It is not only the force that governs the universe. It is the only thing that exists. All of the universe is an interplay between positive and negative of this force. No other thing has ever existed, and no other thing ever shall. Simply because we feel this all-powerful force as creatures when we attract, you selfish fools assume that this is all it is. Something that exists in your  universe, not you in its . So gravely have you underestimated the only true God you have ever known. And I pity you not."

"It was an ethereal realm, one of mists and forests and enchanted trees. Many came along there, but no one stayed long, as the rasps and rumors of the forest were too strong to bear. There was an inkling, a glinting danger of the forest, that no one could ignore. It was the men, the men who stayed in the forest, who bewitched and slanted anyone who came near it. These were the men, the men of Hollywood. Many an angel came near, listening to their whispers and sighs as the men drew them in closer. Fabulous hair, well sculpted bodies, the most audacious and voluptuous masculinity anyone could bear to offer. The women adored them, threw their lives upon them, cursed all other men who were not of their name. The women disappeared into this forest, lost and bewildered, utterly taken by the shining trees and golden leaves, and the vivacious pomp of the lovely men of the woods. No one knew how to fix this remedy. Daughters, cousins, mothers, lovers, all who were lost and abandoned to the realm of Hollywood. The women would walk by this forest, see it from a distance, even hear it from a friend. And soon, they too would approach the glistening woods. And surely, by fathom alone, they would encounter none other than a Hollywood man. Or group of them. Looking seductive, sulking, doing everything in their fathoming to achieve power over the woman. And surely, that woman too would disappear into the enchanted forest, never to be seen again. Their families cast astray, their lives long forgotten, as they fell into the pomp and splendor of the men of the forest. Jessica caught her hair neatly, as she swished it around her head and gave her father a haughty look. 'Today's the big day.' She winked neatly at him and continued packing her bag for her trip to an enchanted forest. Her father shook his head and sighed, numbly coming to grips with the fact that his only daughter was being swayed by the rumors of Hollywood. 'Hon, you can't mean this. This is a senseless trip. There's something wrong with that forest. People disappear there. Those men are insane.' Jessica rolled her eyes cutely, not hindered for a minute in her pursuit of a luscious, glowing, tantalizing life in Hollywood. Imagine the attention  she would get, being one of those famous, handsome men's beautiful woman. She sighed to herself, then sat down neatly. 'Father, you worry too much. I'm not leaving for a couple of hours. Let's just sit here and enjoy ourselves.' The hours passed, and Jessica was on her way. A few hours in a carriage, followed by a few miles of walking, and she would be there. The famous, glorious land of Hollywood. She wondered which man she would pick, and how famous she would be with him, as her head bobbed up and down on the bumpy carriage ride toward the famous enchanted land. The carriage had arrived at a signpost, and she had taken her bag and headed off up the trail. She had a little money, enough to start a new life in an enchanted land, so she thought. The midday sun was almost up, and she made time towards the enchanted realm. After a few minutes, she saw it. A horizon, filled with gold and sparkle, glistening trees and beautiful light filled her eyes. She gasped, started laughing, and ran towards the beautiful vision with lightness in her heart. Jessica took a deep breath. She had entered the golden woods, casually passing under breathtaking leaves and branches, and started looking around. 'Hello?' She called out in a singsong voice, trying to catch the attention of one of Hollywood's famous men. She walked on the well beaten path, continuing along in the direction the arrows and signs pointed her. Jessica heard a noise behind her. Leaves rustling, a bush shaking, something seemed to be going on just off the path she was walking. 'Hello? Is anyone there?' She looked around mystified, still trying to be happy about her impromptu trip to this famous forest. Golden lights and mystical trees. Blech. Where was the fame, the parties, the beautiful men and the women they'd taken into Hollywood? A young man popped his head out of the woods and held his hand up. His hair was glowing and fine and his form was fit, strong, and unique. He smiled and winked, as Jessica let out a squeal of admiration and ran up to hug the young man. 'Oh my god! Hello, hi, I've been here waiting for you!' Jessica threw herself at the young man and wrapped her arms around his neck. The young man rolled his eyes, smiled again, and started a conversation. He offered to show her around Hollywood, let her meet his friends, and maybe go with her to a party later. She took his arm and they walked off, Jessica thinking maybe this wasn't such a nightmare after all. She walked along with the young man, whose had introduced himself as Justin along the way, and started to notice a few strange things. The arm she was holding seemed to feel like rubber, his beautiful, flowing hair didn't seem to match his face, and his voice seemed overly deepened and stern. Such a beautiful look , or so she thought, but the signs of dishonesty, and his brutal attitude and demeanor, were making her scared. Very scared. Don't. Stop. Running. Jessica heaved breathlessly, trying to find the path again, to follow the arrows and signs backwards and get out of there. She had inquired... Just a brush of his hair. A pinch of his shoulder. And a little question at the end about his voice. He had snapped on her, his wig brushing to the side, his false muscle drooping as she had picked at it. The voice, once stern, deep, and masculine, had gone eerily high pitch and threatened her with death and violence. She dashed through the forest, as she had been able to get away from him so far with a slight kick to his shin. As she ran through a clearing, strange stones that looked like a cemetery caught her attention. Her stomach knotted. She paused for a second, guessing she was out of sight, and examined the stones one by one. She gasped and recoiled in horror. Every one of them. Every last one of them. Female names."

"Trick Harris stared around him. The spaceship, the S.S. Emancipator, was jolting, bouncing violently from side to side, as he tried to regain his balance. The darkness had struck, a black shadow exploding from earth that had torn through outer space like a massive, dark, tidal wave. It had hit everything, even their bodies slammed by this horrible energy, as the spaceship orbiting Earth tried to regain its composure. The crew looked at their hands in disbelief. Something was different. This was no ordinary bomb. The black energy had stuck to them, captivating their bodies, consuming their minds, even swarmed through the ship like a vengeful god seeking obedience. Trick looked at the female co-captain, Marina, with a look of shock on his face. 'What was that?' The blast had passed, a dull rumbling sufficing as the new black energy clung to everything in sight. Marina looked back in horror, shaking her head slowly in an effort to answer. Trick looked out the bay window, coming to grips with their circumstances. He had heard of this war. They all had. A phenomenon on Earth, like a dark terrorist some claimed was more of an angel or a demon than human. Battling for supremacy with the corporations that had claimed Earth in 2022, this Earth terrorist was a terrible myth himself. Rumored to have power over darkness, the corporations had all but annexed Earth from the universe in an effort to isolate his rebellion. And even they hadn't seen this coming. Trick's mind was clouded. He could feel the terrifying sensation sweep over him, as someone else held his hand up. With a dull, entrancing voice, Trick's mouth moved and started to form words. 'Hello, Marina.' A slight gasp escaped the crew's lips as they realized the voice wasn't Trick's. Looking around horrified, they all realized something. They weren't in control of their bodies anymore. With the same listless control, Marina's hand was raised, and a foreign, unique smile came over her lips. The hand waved at Trick, as somewhere in his clouded mind he came to terms with what they had just seen. ' Possession.' That was all Trick Harris could get out of his lips. Marina's eyes widened. The crew were all turned in unison towards the ships vast window, like puppets obeying the whim of a master. Outside, Earth's bright panorama met them in return. Billowing clouds, blue oceans, their home planet too was bathed in the darkness from the massive explosion. A voice spoke, their helpless eyes taking in what they were being forced to see. 'The time is coming.' They stood trembling, unable to avert their gaze, as they were forced to become aware of the obvious developments on Earth. Trick wondered for a second, still slightly able to control his own thoughts. The whole universe. Goddamn. Eyes straying to the company logo on his fleet jacket, he heard a deep, dark laugh rumble from the darkness within him."

"Matthew Stone rolled down the window on his Honda Civic. A homeless woman commissioned him, beckoning him as she came over to his car. She inquired as to his well-being, nodded happily for the dollar and a cigarette, and returned to her position by the road. Not a word, and he noticed it immediately. He drove on, unaware of his whereabouts, skeptical of the passersby as he reckoned his situation. Who was he in this town?   He had come around career success on a television show a few years back. And things had gotten really unusual for him in his hometown of Smithville. Matthew pulled into his driveway, rolling slowly over the slight gravel as he noticed his father outside. Raking away in the garden, he seemed to request a conversation. Always morals. Drugs. Accusations. The usual passive-aggressive shit that got his father by in life. Matthew idled by, heading into the garage, able to get away with a brief acknowledgment. His money still wasn't there. He knew the show was doing well, he had talked with producers and managers over the course of Bad Boys TV  starting up. But the money just couldn't come through. There was something about this town... The people were strange. Why not one mention of his show? Nobody happy to greet him, nobody recognizing him on the street, no one that would even admit Bad Boys TV's  existence. Matthew couldn't put his finger on it.  Why the secrecy? Were these people insane? He remembered the cameras. Satellites, little props placed around his apartment in his dad's house and around Smithville. Reality television, at its finest. He played himself, Matthew Stone, ushering in a new era of bad boy nonchalance. Debauchery, some called it, but he lived by one word, and that's why his life caught on and was put on television, with his inner dialogues put on the screen. Freedom. Matthew shifted in his armchair, keyboard in his lap, activating a television computer hung on the wall. And that was another thing. No show in this area. Goddamn it.   All he got to see were specks on the internet and a little hearsay out of town. Bad Boys TV  had been on for four years. He had caught on, even done some music and movies, and become a big star. What the hell was up with this town? Why would his father not mention his success, or even admit to it, once? Strange old man, he fit into a town of people just like him. Smithville was turning into a chaos factory of lying lemmings who wouldn't admit to his success. Puffing a joint, Matthew sat back and turned the screen to his favorite rock band, Constantine. He turned on Passive, one of his favorite songs, and let the cameras do the work as he got high. He could only make one conclusion in his mind. Fuck those demons." *based on the music video Passive by A Perfect Circle

"David Mirokin put his toe up to the line. 'Forty love.' The chair umpire called out the score in monotone, the crowd growing silent as Mirokin prepared to serve. The U.S. Open second round was underway, and this was the third set in a five-set match. David came in seeded eighth in the tournament, and was favored to win the match, especially after taking the first two sets 6-2, 6-2. Standing six-foot-eight with an athlete's build, David Mirokin was no slouch to look at. His impressive German Irish features came through on the court, and his ripped abdominals led up to a powerful chest and stern, handsome features. He had many female fans, and a few were in the light crowd cheering him on. With a loud Thwok, his opponent groaned and slouched as an ace went by him. That was five games to three. The girls in the crowd cheered loudly as David batted the tennis balls to the nearest ballboy. That was a thing he couldn't quite wrap his head around. The crowd. It had been a tough set, though he had gotten the break rather early on and held his serve comfortably. But there was a group of hecklers in the stands nearby the midcourt line, and David's bristles were hackling. Booing, comical gestures, and hurled insults flew from the crowd constantly, almost every time Mirokin made a mistake. A group of ornery young men, they seemed very threatening and passive aggressive. David Mirokin was a fighter, but he knew better. This was his job, and he had to be a professional. His opponent, Justin Ruffin, ranked somewhere around fifty in the world, was preparing to serve. David glanced over at the heckler's section, sneers, branded logo shirts, and pointed fingers meeting him in return. It was like these young men had no identity. Just shit talk and mocking behaviors . It was like they were clowns or something, instead of people, who couldn't take themselves seriously at all .  No confidence .    No seriousness... David rolled his eyes and wiped his brow on his wristband, ignoring the annoyance and preparing to receive. A rally ensued as Ruffin served hard down the middle, Mirokin batting the ball back in return. The game went on, Mirokin taking advantage of a couple of weak second serves to gain a forty to thirty lead in the game. The heckling grew to a new outrageous momentum, as several curse words escaped the hecklers mouths. It was match point. Prize money, and advancing further into the tournament, was on the line. Mirokin complained to the umpire as the umpire obliged with a few commands to the rowdy fans. Casting his fierce eyes once again at the rude crowd members, Mirokin refocused and pounced on a high kick first serve. Receiving a weak reply, Mirokin ran around a cross court forehand and smashed the ball for a winner. The hecklers' faces fell, as David fist pumped and approached the net. His eyes glinting, a moment occurred David Mirokin could not explain. Ruffin trotted to the net, removing his sweaty head scarf, and offered a humble congratulations. The light crowd cheered him loudly with a wave of energy. They could sense it too. He had beaten something else that day.   The wave of energy burst through the whole stadium, as David glanced up at the night sky in New York City after the handshake. He thought to himself, with the only word that made sense of it clearing in his mind. Victory. The chair umpire's voice rumbled in monotone again over the microphone. Game. Set. Match. Mirokin..."

"Of all the ubiquitous little parlors in town, Johann's was the most fastidious. A little nook here, a little cranny there, everything had to be dusted and arranged just accordingly. And all for bread. A little bread shop, it seemed enough to keep up with the rural scenery of the small town of Faskach. It was a small development outside of the major factories and living centers nearby in Urbania. Not much happened there. Faskach had seen them all come and go, from creepy little neo-Semites with nothing going on to trickle-downs of the factories north of them with slick hair and well-fitting suits, looking for their next pay. None of them did well there. It was work and die. From the rural suburbs to the mighty factories up north, there was nothing else to do in the world. Standing up to his full height of three foot eight inches, slightly tall for Faskach or even Urbania, Johann finished dusting off a chair. His twenty-three-hour shift was coming to a close, and he wanted to go outside for a little while. To gaze at the great dust balls in the sky, see the huge factories up north pumping smoke, see the bicycles carrying workers whisk by. Anything to clear his mind of its tension. Johann watched the clock as he finished his dusting. It struck his number and he sighed gratefully, careful not to let his supervisor hear. Setting down his duster and arranging the chairs one final time, Johann stepped out of 'La Panera,' the little bread shop he worked in, into the street. It was dark, and the glowing yellow dust balls greeted his eyes immediately. He smiled. For a second, he felt better about things. The minutes passed, Johann's green hair and orange skin glinting in the streetlights as he smoked his cigarette and thought. The burden was heavy . He would think about that later. There was too much to do. His parlor needed his attention, and the many parlors all around Urbania and the towns around all shared that one rule. 'Never late, never frown.' Johann sighed again and stood up in the eerie glow of the streetlights outside the tiny bread parlor, amongst a town, a city, an entire world full of them. He checked the clock and went back inside, a slight tremble to his lips."

"The horses and the carts broke down before they made it out of town Tell me what you're going to do When no more kids are scared of you Flick the finger flick the ring Takes more than this to be a king The looking glass is clear and true Look what time has done to you Bring the horse and bring the bull All you do is void and null Tell me what you're going to do When mockingbird here sings to you Sing back to your hearts delight You'll learn a thing or two by night When this happens tried and true There will be nothing left of you " *a response to 'Hush Little Baby'

"The Walmart manager smiled as the rest of his crew lit up in bright smiles. The camera flashed, and the regional store crew laughed and shoved each other playfully as the flash dimmed to nothing. Harry Mann, the manager, chuckled too as his assistant manager examined the photograph she had taken on her phone. A nice picture, his employees looking happy and productive. Walmart's finest. Donna, the assistant manager, smiled as well and walked off. They were supposed to take a store picture, shift by shift, showing happy and grinning employees enjoying their careers at Walmart. Harry squinted and pulled up his trousers, trying to think if any more shifts were due that day. Probably not, unless somebody had a replacement, and that wouldn't count. Harry returned to his office in the back of the store, contemplating life and new beginnings. He stopped in front of the security mirror and looked in. With a grumpy smile and wave, he could barely see the security team laugh and wave back. He kept looking. An overweight, squinting, sixty-something-year-old with a comb-over, slacks, and an average blue polo shirt looked back at him. Yuck. Harry remembered the rules, smiled reassuringly, pretended to dust something off his shirt to the security team, and went back to his office door. Jiggling a key, he walked in, sat down and slumped into his chair. Outside, Donna and several other employees jumped as they heard the sound of Harry's .38 caliber revolver, kept for self-defense, firing loudly in his office. Donna and the others rushed in and saw Harry's form slumped over his desk next to a book on Norse mythology. He was unresponsive. Blood was splattered on the wall behind him, and more of it was pooling from his open mouth. The security team rushed in and cleared the area. It was labeled a suicide, and rumors went on for days of what had caused it and what Harry Mann's problem had been. Weeks passed, as a new manager, Walter Jones, had been going over Harry's old routines and taking care of work the former manager would have done himself. Things were getting back to normal, as the topic of conversation had passed, and people were starting to smile and laugh again. Walter walked past the many cashier stations, pausing to look at a board full of pictures hanging near the security window. There were his employees, with a little heart cut out for Harry Mann's memory, staring back at him. Walter smiled at the pictures, the employees on them smiling back in return. With a flutter, the paper heart for Harry Mann fell from the board, floating gently into a trail of water on the ground below."