Once, you wanted this leading life.
Wear your corporate success proudly, sweetheart; collars and cuffs synonyms for platinum-class shackles. You used to be a freelancer, slaving in your shared studio, shared rent, shared beer and starvation; you hated the guys, their stinks, squeaky chairs, rattling keyboards; God, you loved them. You shared a belief in the point of the pain, in the vibe of the thing, in the proud sublime thusness of a design that could sing.
Fast forward a thousand years later, professionalism coloured jade like a greener grass somewhere; you wonder, wistfully, whether nostalgia could drive you mad.
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