Some people roll their multi-faceted dice to decide their next move, some people agree to say “yes” to anything and everything and some people don’t bother trying to think about anything at all. The latter group of people could form many aspects of the world, but mainly they seem to end up either working from a call centre and calling themselves Dave or pretending to be your friend on the street to extort money for charity through tedium and over enthusiasm. I swear, the sound of one of the “Chuggers” (Charity muggers) uttering the a phrase that sounds like “hi fella, have you got a moment to talk about how society is limiting the potential for chickens to educate themselves?” is enough to develop the psycopath in me. But I digress, for a nice change.
As I was wandering around the back streets of a hugely rundown and rapidly decomposing East Manchester industrial estate, another thought occurred to me as I stared at the walls and the fences with wild abandon. Could a chap live his life being dictated to by graffiti, street art and mouldy messages on fences? Could the walls and fences of this life tell him what to do, take the decisions out of life?
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