Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of September 20, 2020
Fall is always in such a rush to get here. Spring refuses to leave. Summer is a fair-weather friend, and winter is a drunken old bastard with an axe to grind.
Fall is always in such a rush to get here. Spring refuses to leave. Summer is a fair-weather friend, and winter is a drunken old bastard with an axe to grind.
Empires collapse, fortunes evaporate, and stocks nosedive into hell—but a deep sleep, a clean shit, and a laugh that shakes your skeleton remain the closest thing humanity has to real wealth.