At the Ayn Rand Institute, we advocate toothpicks that stand 17’ tall. We reject the mere utility of holding fancy sandwiches together, let sandwiches stand for themselves. We are Ayn Rand, finely wrought chicken. We live in Massachusetts, the any town of any mind. We live in the heart of a city of light. Our light is light, like strict passage to the next important fact. We beg for creations as tall as our men. We discuss actions and currents, with the highway as a map. We live in quick-paced sentences, distributing with zest. We are angels of agreeable passage, talking the night away so that we can sneak up on morning. When morning’s glow cuts the furtive sky, we strike a match. Our matches are towers of extreme trees, mastering the horizon and every imaginable paragraph. We use periods only to excite and impress the document. We are the document, just as the landing missile prevents unneeded reply. In seven years you’ll hear our bell.
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