Who is this man?
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Who is this man? Where is he going?
He walks with purpose. There is something in his hand, and it probably has import. He moves, I believe, toward a place, not away from, let’s say, an idea.
He is in no hurry, yet he seems sure of his direction, his goal.
Will he ever arrive?
No. I’m sorry to say he will not.
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After eons of aching madness, a wave of stoic calm washes over Sisyphus. He doffs his toga for khakis and a blazer, instantly transforming his interminable hell into a psychedelic cakewalk.
Sisyphus is correct. Today’s Sisyphus, the modern Sisyphus, Sisyphus 2.0 if you will, need not roll a boulder, merely tote a folder. (The Penske File, perhaps.) His journey is not forever uphill, but on the level. No sweat. He moves in comfort and ease, more or less on-trend, endlessly.
Progress, is what we call this.
See, I was under the distinct impression that we were looking at Dave here. The elevator was closed so no, he didn’t arrive. He gave up at the base of the stairs, ate that doughnut and then called it a day. Dave. What a slacker.