Some days, I wander around this planetary sphere and dream that I'm
a trappist - looking for the hides of animals with a shotgun and a dog to
keep me company. Sub-zero nights in small huts with a fire going.
Cases of gunpowder. Meat galore. A tin of tobacco with rolling papers
and a pipe.
It would be a lonely life but a solitary one. One without debt. One
without the desire to impress people. I'd take my hides to town once
in a while, cash in for some dough, see what new whiskeys they were
swillin' at the taverns, and then be on my way.
Back to the open plains. Just me and my dog.
