If Pullman Could Speak...

Gratuitously borrowed from The Guardian:

Hell, I've always been old. Ya' know what though, I don't mind. I mean if my farm buildings look worn, it's because I've used 'em to feed millions. Maybe my hills have no architecture, but countless young people have walked up 'em every day seeking knowledge. My houses might be cookie-cutters, but they are not insignificant to the kids who go to sleep in 'em every night safely sheltered against the Chinook winds that blow over my prairie. I've got some peeling paint here and there, but I've laid under thousands of skies with sunny days. I look and feel this way, well cuz I'm a working town. I've made wheat, lentils, peas, electronics, and scholars that are world class. I lived and I loved, danced, partied, sang, cheered, shouted, cried, mourned, sweat, built, tore down, and rebuilt my way thorough a pretty damn good life if you ask me. Getting old ain't bad. Getting old, that's earned.