/lit/ - Literature

>>4147968

Back in '62 I shoved dollar bills where night-lights of a not-so-adolescent nature shined where the sun sure don't. I spent more time than money in all the wrong oases: crustacean encrusted bar-crawls prefaced with racks of Harley-Davidsons, beer filled pool halls shooting 8-balls for 8-balls, chic bistro bars just to arrow eye-grins at blank bimbo targets just to see what marks spied back. One label of the culture I fancied the most: fascist anarchy. It fit in response to the live-lawless-or-face-prosecution attitude present but also chimed just right. Though my memories lie in a kerfuffle of confusion, I still stand in awe at how things back then were different. Things, not people. And that, is exactly what astounds me. People, regardless of second, minute, day, year, decade, century, millennium, eon, era, seldom change. They remain the ultimate anachronism, like static on ever evolving TV sets, never losing that inherent black and white background radiation piercing through the cosmos. People are results of circumstance, products of an ever predictable nature that fall victim to the same traps countlessly through the maze that we call life.

We need to archive this thread, for the sake of /lit !

http://chanarchive.org/request_votes

Three more votes are needed. Please help.
Thanks.