They call this the slaughterhouse, the guide's voice echoed off the empty halls. Slaughter house? Then why is this surgically clean? As if guessing what was going through every visitors mind, the guide continued. This is where great ideas were crucified. That's the podium where E=MC2 died after being stoned with quantum physics. And that my friends is the apple tree where the serpent sold his ideas to Adam and Eve. The very tree that dropped an apple on Newton's head giving him gravity. Isn't it evil? Well, who am I to plant my ideas in your mind, the guide guffawed. The eerie silence that filled the halls was marred by the hushed whispers of the visitors. The are getting ideas, thought the guard. For years he has been doing this and he knew what will happen next. Are you getting any ideas?
Looks like the fog just spared my window to the street. The street lights looked liking smokers in an alley. The cobble stones were wet from the drizzle. The street dogs were busy barking at something. A breeze just unsettled the garbage can's lid. My world hasn't changed much. Everyday I look for some sign of change. Nothing seems to change. I have grown bald. My eyesight has dimmed. My kids have grown. The window pane has gathered dust and dirt. The spiders have evolved. Some old buildings have given way to new ones. The neon signs have gone. Still nothing seem to have changed. Change they say has to come from within. But then, what can come out of an empty narrow dead end?
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