Pool_2

>> Whomp <<

People either start out very different in their constitutions or become so from pasts painted in different hues. Who is suited to become a sailor? A poet? A surgeon? Not all jobs carry the same rushed confusion and angst, nor demand the same time commitments as the practice of medicine. The very day that Doctor Macaluso was running from operation to operation following without any breather on the emergencies of the day and night before, the same day that he was thrust into battle over a needlessly challenged triage and then on top of all that, confronted with an unearned photographic character assassination to only later be assailed by his own colleagues for doing what was the right thing and effectively so, on that very day another man planned an executed a relaxed full day's outing to take care of a single brief matter. To Macaluso, the day's weather could have been characterized by monsoons or tornadoes for all he knew. Outside had ceased to exist. On the other hand, to another person, the day was bright and not oppressively hot. It was a day perfectly suited for nice walk, and especially to a take a trip outside the city to attend to a few details. Who is there to say which job has more intrinsic value? Is it merely how hard you work? How you strain under its burden? Or is it simply the spread of the wake you leave behind? You judge. If one takes the commuter train from New York city, it is only about forty minutes, depending on the hour, including the transfer at Trent. Passage through the dense industrial circle outside the Big Apple is, frankly, forgettable. It is thick with functionality, industrial muscle at work. It has enough to do and does not need your approval for its existence. The next expanse, traveling further out, is one of can you top this signs