Fuck swag.

Forget flash. 

Never mind cool. 

Loose the bling. 

No ritz, glitz, and all that other glamorous shit.

Don't go ham.

Or ball out.

Don't even make it rain.

You only need to ever do one thing.

Exude class. 

Hold open a door for someone. 

Wear a tie or, even better, a bow tie.

Say, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Make eye contact.

Respectfully disagree.

No matter what you do, always exude class. 

"My favorite part of riding on an airplane is when the aircraft passes through thick patches of clouds. For a moment, just before you recognize the wafts of gas and condensation passing over the wing, you lose any sense of depth. Outside the window, there is just stark, white emptiness, and turbulence. The only thing separating you from certain death on land or at sea is metal, plastic, and 20,000 ft of air."

Journal entry, Dallas/Ft. Worth - Narita, Japan, May 2013

"I'm glad we were able to come to an understanding," he said. "This is exactly the kind of nonsense the Ministry is not inclined to abide."
The leather in his uniform creaked and stretched as he shifted in his seat.
"You see, we like to consider the actions of the Ministry more as interventions than coercions. Encouragement. Guidance. Never so much force as to make our citizens feel manipulated, but just enough of a push to get them marching in the proper direction."
The steadiness of his voice began to disappear, slowly replaced with a trembling that betrayed his meticulously crafted image of self-control. 
"It is our duty to assist those living within the ranks and files of our society with their acclimation. They must all fall in line. You must fall in line. There is no alternative."

The feeling of ants crawling on your skin.

The bees don't sting as hard as they did last winter. 

Perhaps they've lost their will to protect. 

Autumn has come again and we bitterly watch the ice cover that once picturesque landscape. 

Sheets of white that turn the horizon into a sweeping gradient like some abstract expressionist painting. 

With grit teeth, trudging on, one foot after the other, onward. 

The compass spins, dancing around the letters. 

North. Please. North.