I’m trapped. I find myself waiting in line at Time Warner’s sterile offices to swap out a modem; whatever that means. The guard at the front door wears a gun strapped in at the waist. I’m face booking on my phone. This device should probably be swapped out as well.
My ears are subjected to dreadful background music and the generally discontent and inappropriate language of the surly crowd; persons also waiting to swap out or turn over something.
I look at the ceiling and the fluorescent lighting. There is a continual buzzing emanating from the fixture. I’m contemplating the bust of Homer and the future of Western Civilization…
690 Saint Paul 