I am comfy, reclining in my chair. It’s not a power-actuated Connolly-wrapped throne, but it supports me well enough, like the bench seats of American cars of yore. It’s so easy, sipping a coffee, commenting on the honour of an automotive world passing by. I’m enlightened by Edison’s accomplishment, a light bulb born of endless attempts, scribbling down the wretched lifestories of Detroit, seeing the sad eyes of jobless people. I can not print down my tears on the keyboard, nor teleport the saltiness of its character.
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