I am building a Thing, out of so-many-pieces, scattered and strewn and scribbled and half-writ. I am building a Thing out of so-many-bricks baked from so-many-stones.
The bricks don’t always fit together, so there are also bars and poles and springs and other, even stranger, things.
A mound of dirt, a grass, a flower…
Is this thing I’m trying to build a Tower?
No. No. This is no Tower, but a mound. A pile, jumbled, of ideas. Some shapes reflections of my fears and others: hope and love and–all sorts of things, worlds and jungles and people that I’ve “thought up”, I guess that’s what they’d say.
Energy particles just sort of bang together in my brain and waterfalls pour out and some of the bricks are washed away. And, in this way, the shape of the Thing is changed and I am ever less sure of what exactly it is that I’m building.
But I keep building. I keep building.
I keep building this Thing that is only the thoughts of one man, the life of one man, the truth of one man.
One day, in some distant, unknown future, I will look upon it–as the sun rises or sets–and see, at last, with perfect clarity the Thing that I have made.
Michael Scott Hand 