It might be easier to believe that we are each the only thing that is real in our world than to imagine that we are, somehow, all seeing the same things so differently. I don't remember building this planet, painting all these houses, planting all these trees, but I am the only one in the universe, so it must have been me, right? Does it bother you to be imaginary in my world? Does it ever occur to you, when I'm not around, that nothing that you do matters? Does that make it hard to be motivated? If so, I apologize. For this too, I must be responsible. Welcome to my world. I'll try to make it as bearable as possible for you.
In New Mexico I didn't see many hawks, but I saw a lot of large ravens. They were everywhere. And mountains, lots of those too. It has led me to this theory: When you combine a raven with a mountain, you get a hawk. It's not a very good theory, mind you. It's just a working theory. I haven't been able to prove it yet. Yet.
What in the world are we to do in a world like this? Crazed gunmen and Golden Globes. Reality television and harsh winters. Top Chef and Sarah Palin. And somewhere, deep in the forest, Bigfoot is hiding from cameras, wishing he were more photogenic and not so terribly shy. He's listening to country music on an old crank-powered radio he found in the woods. He doesn't like country music, but it's the only thing you can get out here. Later in the evening he tries to live-tweet a meteor shower, but the Fail Whale keeps coming up, so he gets drunk and falls asleep at the edge of a small, murky pond. Plus everyone likes sports and I don't. What kind of world have I made for myself?
Hello, friends. I hope you're well.
Later. Love.
