We come to you with a sorry tale. A grim little story of blood shed between brothers. Over what? Glory, or—in keeping with our "to the barricades" mood—la gloire. Pitiful happenstance brings us here, O best beloveds, the cruel price of ticking clocks and addled days. We love this scroll we share; nothing else confounds our spirits, nothing else corrodes our hearts. But there are times—forgive us our signal weakness—when vice calls and our devils answer. For this we should be penalized? On the tail end of such a spell, we woke to learn that our own people, our friends, have stolen a march on us, gone forth themselves, alone, to bring you fresh news of theft. Irony we know too well. But what of Liberty? Equality? Fraternity? They acted in the dead of day and stole that which we hold dearest. And they did so without the comfort of a single em-dash. It's war.

· 80 South Street Update: Shining a FLW Light on Design [Curbed]

Posted in Our Fallen World