The cliche at the end of the tunnel: My backslash power tie meets a spray can and a tall horse.

I walk to lunch through the financial district and see one thousand and a half hella-trites. The financial district, where MBAs are a dime a dozen, deep Vs are jewelry and the blue-white BMW checks are a crucifix: A symbol of dedication and commitment for those who believe and one to lovingly condescend at for those who do not. The MBAs might think the world spins at their fingertips; the trackbikes might think the world would not notice if an MBA were to fall off of it. Maybe an intern would come to work one day, "What happened to Mr. Thompson?" "He must have fallen off of the face of the Earth," they'd say, "it happens all the time."

words by dusty stokes. photo by chris brunt.

enter lovebryan