A hermit wrote this drippy writing on a dumpster. It is drippy from the calm sadness of hermitic solitude, which is not so much sadness at being alone but sadness at what man's false claims of civilization have become.
I followed the drips which led back to this scrap tin shack near the abandoned power plant along the Rivanna River. This was the roof, or a close-up of the roof. If you look closely in the rain-slick reflection on the tin roofing, you can see the mirror image of dystopia.
The hermit, when confronted, shrunk himself tiny and crawled into my brain through my left earhole. I tried to shake him out doing that comedic Curly from The Three Stooges thing where you lean your head over and bang on the other ear, but the little hermit didn't come out. For years, he didn't come out. Then I bought this O-scale freight car at the antique store in my small town which is actually a pretty shitty antique store to be honest with you, and also while I'm being honest I'm not sure it's even an O-scale car, I just said that because I know it's not the normal tiny scale people use this time of year around their Christmas trees. But when I brought this toy freight car home, the little hermit started coming out at night and leaving graffiti on the toy freight car. I leave him different color Sharpies out at night. Sometimes he uses them, sometimes he don't.
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