text: The barn itself isn’t all that peculiar. Pretty standard as barns go. Big, musty and partially filled with hay and broken tools. It should be noted that it is brown, not red. That is something I’ve noticed having lived in the country all these years. The barns aren’t usually red. Some are, of course. Probably painted by those so desperately trying to live a nostalgic fantasy they must surround themselves with the trappings of times gone bye. Jesus, just buy a painting. I would hate to be like that. My ability to let things go, move on, drop baggage, has always been a strong point. Sure, some would say it makes me cold and isolated from those around me. I like that though. Why would I want to “connect” with people? People are vile, broken, sick, immoral and selfish. People are the main problem with the whole human race. You eliminate people from the equation and what you have is a virtual paradise. Sometimes I’ll watch those movies you know, the end of the world ones and be so very envious. Could you imagine being the last person alive? Just you. No noise. No constant noise. No smell, no disappointment. That, my friend, is the promised land. It’s not to be though, no matter how hard I try I can’t get there. Eight billion is a lot of people. Too many, far, far too many. I thought moving out here would be good for me. Isolate myself a bit. Calm me down. I could teach some classes online to make a buck and rent this old farmhouse to rattle around in. I had hoped it would be haunted but no, just broken down. I should mention that I don’t farm, never could. Sure I’ll play the part. I drive the tractor. I put on the overalls and have even been known to chew some straw once and a while. I don’t farm but I do keep myself busy in this barn. Very much so. Just like now. Digging, digging. It’s surprisingly hot for this early in spring. I had to wait for the ground to thaw as I always do. Usually it’s much later but this year it’s early and I very much prefer this. It’s still dark when I have my chores to do. I like that. Not that anyone is watching but should they happen down this long driveway for whatever reason, the darkness assures no surprises for anyone concerned. I hate small talk. I think that sets me off more than anything. I don’t care about your aunt’s bad leg. I don’t care about your carrot crop. I don’t care about your kids, your mother, your anything. I don’t care at all and pretending is so testing. If I’m to make a mistake, that’ll be when it is. It is crazy hot. Maybe I’m just out of shape. Could be what it is. Farm life, ironically, has me lazy. Have to keep digging though. Maybe I should get a cow? Or chickens. I’d like some chickens. The idea of having someone, or in that case, lots of people to talk to. That is appealing. You see, there’s no small talk with chickens. It’s mostly just a one way conversation and that I like. Plus, chickens can keep a secret. Even if they can’t they make a delicious roasted snitch. Look at that pile of things. This part sucks. I mean, I get it has to be done but it’s like washing dishes after cooking a master piece of a meal. The let down. Oh well. You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. You hear that chickens? Great, now I’m talking to imaginary chickens as well as myself. Best get to moving it into the hole. Deep enough now I figure. One more in the ground, seven billion, nine hundred and ninety nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine to go. Then there will finally be no more small talk.