A place of work…is there a map of what’s left of the world after all the work places are removed? I am here, toiling on others daydreams. I am not riding around inside my own thoughts. I’m not creating a better life for me, the wheels are spinning in the mud. The dirt is spraying up my back. I am covered in the weight of routine. I want to be coated in sublimation. I want to pass out of here, smoke under the fire door. No solid form left. I want to find the place of passion. The places left on the map, the buildings with words as tattoos. I want a library surrounding me. A sanctuary of knowledge and adventure.
There is a place with no doors…the outdoors..