Today, I want the kind of crazy old uncle that had a country estate, with a huge, dusty attic. Up there, is a box full of maps from my crazy, old uncle’s travels through India, Africa, and South America.
Weather-stained maps. Scribbled in ink about landmarks missing, dangerous tribes, man-eating tigers, and the sort of mysteries that can only exist in the big, empty spaces of a map, where the rivers are missing and the ground, still, has no known name.
Tomorrow, I suspect I will want a puppy.
The day after that? Likely I’ll desire an electric guitar.
After that, I will long for my own Hobbes.
Every day is a new irrational desire.