text: What I want is to lie down in the woods until I die of thirst or some other means. Everything is work, all of this is work, and I would rather not do any of it. You see I’m well beyond asking what the point is; in case you haven’t figured it out, there is no point. God is not real expect in your mind as an implicitly contradictory, discrete conception of everything as one. The individual is damned and you know it. All collections of people, from state to family, fail to redeem the individual. &#x200B; &#x200B; You might then be asking the question, why am I penning these words instead of adding my biomass to the woods? A perfectly acceptable question, for which I have a perfectly unacceptable response. I can’t. And believe you me, I’ve tried. I’ve embraced the forest floor, caressed the dead leaves and sticks and rocks and dirt, then resigned the mind and invited Death. Curious, how vehemently, how *religiously*, a slave can rebel, only to be subjected once again, over and over, by the hand of the master. &#x200B; &#x200B; Whose heart heats the hovel? Stone whose pen writes a novel.