the dotcom diaries

it sat between sales and marketing, run by ageing men from the south, nurtured by migrant workers from the east, the offspring of dosawallas, used protestants and assorted deadweight.

the only thing forty of the fifty who assembled there had in common was this: they knew little about definite articles.

what did they do, these forty souls, exchanging their lives for purple prose? did they all go home to empty lives, tragic wives? did they survive merely to populate the bandwidth allocated to them, doing no more than paraphrasing reports already published by real journalists at other websites, other newspapers?

to stay was to die. i chose life.