That's the secret of life, don't let the buggers stomp on your winged pigs.
Key West for a lot of people is a winged pig, the place where a disco ball can become a garden ornament.
Key West is the refuge where people come to dream that life can be exactly as they want it. On a bad day you can walk Lower Duval street and figure most people's dream is the ability to drink alcohol continuously without consequences.
Key West is the place where we lose our inhibitions, where our little private pigs practice flapping their newly sprouted little wings.
It isn't always the best thing to bring those little pigs to life. They start to flap their wings and then they demand attention and you either pay them their due and move to Key West or climb Mount Everest and then your detractors have their chance to tell you that despite indicators to the contrary pigs do not actually have wings.
Bonnie Albury's house on Southard Streethas a couple of enormous flappers on it and the little men hovering around the dilapidated mansion, paying it homage with their power tools and buckets of blood are helping the new owners to get their pig off the ground.
Bloody stupid isn't it? It's a declining housing market, or at least stagnant in Key West, and in a world of diminishing energy resources who wants a giant mansion in the hurricane belt that cost an arm and a leg to refurbish in time to be demolished by Mother Nature's annual summer fart? See, it's easy to tear down people's dreams, so easy perhaps you should try something different instead.
Perhaps flapping a few pigs wings isn't such a bad idea.you,ll be dead soon enough.
I don't trust the preacher when she insists we get to flap our wings when we're dead. what if this is all the time we've got?
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