"As I walked around the old mill town in what remained of a long day, I slowly began to take notice of the ramshackle way it had been cobbled together. Patched piece by piece and tarred at the seams with seemingly shoddy respect for all to follow and all that preceded. Doors that were once bustling portals of activity now had been closed and painted up seemingly only remaining for the purpose of holding errant tags and the incessant vulgar scrawl of seemingly overgrown but not yet grown up school children. It was then I began to wonder with the imminent demise of print media if that was what my generation would be reduced to, mindless sloganeering masquerading as wit.

And yet seemingly in spite of this observation or perhaps out of pure compliance and acquiescence I sit inside one of these patchwork establishments touching pen to paper. For the most part directly inside the door of these buildings is what I can only assume is meant to pass for a bar. Jutting angular protrusions of wood or something like it pieced together into a ramshackle counter covered in the only obvious clue to it being a bar aside from the surly half tanked patrons scattered about, alcohol, and plenty of it. These surroundings do however seem to become increasingly more homey as soon as you've been caught in the realization that the man pouring your drinks (phrased that way because he's precisely that and nothing more) is rather heavy handed with the whiskey much to your eventual chagrin. That is until you end up as immediately outside the door as you were in, in what may or may not be a gutter."