Each MSTRE postcard ordered will be unique. Each will contain a personalized message and a download code for the entire album. Once you've downloaded the album, you can put the postcard on your refrigerator, if you have a refrigerator, and if you're into that sort of thing. You can throw away the postcard, but that would rather defeat the purpose of ordering it. You can put it in your special little scrapbook. You can use it as a bookmark. Hell, you can do whatever you want! Or don't order one. Actually, you know what? Don't order one.
ships out within 2 days
edition of 100
Walk the block to the coffee shop, travel mug in hand. For seven and a quarter, kid takes my order -- a formality, you understand. He's got it here before an auctioneer could say, "The usual, my friend." Nine hours go by like asking why; I return home and then scratch an itch 'til misnomer Rich knocks on my door again. Says, "Hey mon frer, a buck and a square? Things ain't easy, y'know." And I say, "Ah, gee, what's in it for me?" and he doesn't seem to know.
An hour on and I'm long gone in the place to which I turn, and the swill I'm drinking's got me thinkin' unwell whiskey's a better term. For all I know I should be glad for Joe, young fella to my right celebrating a successful mating, a raise and a Corona Light. And hell, maybe too I should sigh with Lou, old fella to my left, about the way one's time don't seem to mind a quick and passive death.
But speaking of time, no time for that -- there's a hand around my neck, and far from silence a voice of violence says, "Sing our boy the song! He's been walking around like a faggot clown for a little bit too long." "It's not hysteria that's gonna carry ya to where you wanna be!" I say, and I kiss his face and I leave that place as fast as a man can flee.
I walk a ways, how far couldn't say, 'til the road I'm on dead-ends, and outta nowhere, I swear, a man appears like the way the mind pretends. Looks like me at 53: six-foot, blue eyes, blond hair. Seems like me at 23: somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. Patron saint of identity theft, a suitcase in his right hand, a book in his left, he starts to move in my direction, giving me a full inspection. Maybe he thinks there's some connection: time, chance, fate's projection? Then, having given due reflection and receiving no objection, he offers me an interjection in a voice with no inflection.