Old Maps

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.


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