The citizenry moves through the drudgery with admirable devotion, while I foolishly seek a wisdom that perished with the Druids in Gaul. I carry my bundle of memories from hill to hill, pushing it into the soil, so that I may grow a wall of trees to hang forever on. Then, I walk down the by-path and through the burrow, guided by the voice of intuition. This internal chatter, a cacophony of metallic sounds, has taken me to nothing, yet I am still loyal to it.
I think, in my lucid moments, that it is nothing short of Fear’s cabaret. All of this movement has been a distraction from true chaos. But, still I listen prudently. I drive down the road that calls to me. I pick up the book that seems to have a light shinning down upon it. I talk to those that have something to say, one of them being Robert.
Robert has felt it necessary to waste my time by writing to tell me that he hates me. That he couldn’t imagine anyone on Earth not hating me. That he wishes for my death.
I reminded him that while I don’t think him to be much of an artist, he does, and it would do him well to think of more creative insults.
Together, we are nothing more than battling children.