. . . . .
Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?
'No!' says the man in Washington, 'It belongs to the poor.'
'No!' says the man in the Vatican, 'It belongs to God.'
'No!' says the man in Moscow, 'It belongs to everyone.'
I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different.
I chose the impossible.
I chose...
Rapture, a city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality,
Where the great would not be constrained by the small!
And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well.
. . . . .
Hello, ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using ladies scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady. I’m on a horse.
. . . . .
We're a lot alike, you and I. You tested me. I tested you. You killed me, I... oh no, wait. I guess I haven't killed you yet. Well... food for thought.
