This is an impromptu writing I did while working. Even better yet, it was while I was driving. But, it fits the city of Marshall perfectly. 

 

The people. These people. undertoned with corruption and false pretense. But, they’re not evil, or even bad; intentionally. This village takes them, and breaks them, quietly, like a puppy in training, and the result grants a similar mindless dedication.

This village. What a horrendous place for a brain. Maybe not, with all these minds here, numbering around twelve thousand, they seem to gallivant freely and thoughtless daily. With such an easy life, why complain? Indeed, who is one mind against a sea of following leaders and opinionaters with rephrased results? To blend is to succeed in this village. This village, drearily mild and equally succumbing, stupors the mind into an easy medium for transactive interaction.

what’s one mind? In this village, anyway. Why strive for excellence when blind dedication is more rewarding? The humps in the roads of this village are as negatively fruitful as the forks in them.

Daily routine leaks from this village, oh this village, set in a stone that would impress even Moses, and leave a far more numbingly bitter oral residue. And the residue! Potent and prickly, it binds to words as a contagion would, swiftly and quietly attacking minds, and puppeteering with a gay abandon reserved for puppeteers.

This village; an easy life. Ups and downs like any other, with a hint of malice and misdemeanor. Any mind can meld with ease into this frothy and foreboding life without focal points or frictioned intention. This life. An easy village–perfectly synonymous are these two nouns now; I may taste that prickly residue now…

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