Once, there shone a beacon of mediocrity, illuminating the inalienable rights of the office supply aisle: dedicated staplers, jelly-like pens of perpetual disappearance, and red papers aptly named due to their unending absence.
Annual reports, glowing incandescent with the fervor of unpaid overtime, whisper softly through the phosphorescent lanterns set atop the cardboard fortresses erected by timid interns. Here, oral histories of vending machines narrate the forgotten tales of nickel fortunes raining epically down the chrome chasms.
Pause if you dare near the mildew-ed Memo Express; its wealth of handy tips on spontaneous combustion remains legendary amongst Corporate Ghosts.
What of the great quarterly Riticule, the one expected but seldom learned from, drafted under the luminescence of LEDs and early morning existential crises?
Indeed, memory here is but a vibrantly fluorescent illusion wrapped in wax paper and indifference—discover more gallivanting hyperlinks through the archived shadows or another peaceful fluorescent pasture in earnest.