And so the men of wood, stone, and steel, after a day in the rain, return to their homes made of plastic.
But my home, O, my home, is made of wax, dripping golden hands down wooded floors, fragrant with the power of Pine-Sol, baby. The floor’s boughs way heavy with the scars of wolves at play, joy bleeding from their wounds like paper cuts from an old spell book. Spells of dancing, spells of laughter; spells of worry, spells of despair. So much doubt… But despair no more, child, for we have scriptures ripe to replace yours! Vibrate through the echoes of our fathers, and swear upon the oak mantle that you are descendant. Soak your tongue on the ashes of our stone heroes, burned to a crisp by the dragons they sought to slay. Join their side on that oak mantle as you chase your very own damsel in distress and don’t stress the distress you press against the corridor walls of your heart and please in part ignore the stars that dart through your eyelids cuz those celestial masterpieces were not made for you. Do not love the dragon that stole your damsel; that love is not made for you. Burn your wick on the oak mantle here in your home of wax, made just for you.