The Death of a Salesman

Happens at the death of his business.

All the custom photos and odes covering the walls only make the downfall more tedious to tear down.  The crowded walls are soon to be bare.  Panels are scarred by nails; the air is singed with failure–all faces are construed by the same thing.

His wife was taken from him last year.  Today it is his life’s work that will join his life’s love in rest.

-Oh to be so basic, we still die. Think up reasons for trying.  Why not let all fail? For then the nothingness of it all can bring us solace.  Thinking of it rots my insides-if only my flesh would comply.-

The room smells of thick burning cigars. It’s almost as dusty as the vessel that houses our hope.  Today we leave for the last time and we will never see this place again. Our name will be brought down from the retro plaza sign.



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