Thoreau Was A Hack. Will Working Keep Me Honest?
I made my cabin in the woods built of the fruits of my day labor. Two tiny rooms set aside for leisure and for pondering - a sacred cone of silence! into which I retreat from the hustle and bustle. Each day goes by and I dream of pixelations, of beautiful noise songs turned into sculptures. I hoarde my office supplies. I measure out my enthusiasm. I lie on my space foam bed, eat sour patch kids, and take myself very seriously.
Sometimes I wish I could roam around untethered, collecting wonderful memories of faraway sand dunes and natural parks...I wish I could leave my house with a backpack full of only sculpy and magic markers and never look back. And sometimes, I am very happy to tinker in my hobbit bunker, smoke, eat frozen pizza and play make shift ping pong on my make shift ping pong table. I don't know what I'm making and I don't know what I'm missing, but I'm sure it's there. I'm sure what's there, you ask? My small H.M.S. birth mark that swirls out a dark navy blue. Etched and expertly formed in a hidden place - like the Omen! but not nearly as special as the Omen! and no snarling dogs or Gregory Peck like the Omen! No, this mark is far more ordinary, why, you have one on your own self.