Thirty minutes into the cross Atlantic flight, the tight waisted, tight clothed, piercing eyed men and women, with little pins of Soviet era hammer, sans sickle, and wings, paraded down the aisle.
Each morning, before the sun breaks through the temperate clouds, there is a woman who mops the tiles. The red, brown, gray, black, well edged, sometimes crumbl... Read More...
While the position may have the public benefit in mind, like it or not, the concept of this government sponsored narrative is not far off from an Orwellian horizon.