I went to the land of art. It was lovely. And had flies. I understand more now, about what it is, and what I am, which is not what it is. "They eat your kind for dinner," someone warns me. My sweet, you mistook, as so many do. That is not my story. I am no Weyland. Though it was hard there, to not Make.
In a place of Making, I sat poised, hand half withdrawn, Not Making because I don't Make Art. And because among people who do, what is broken is valued, so is not automatically mine. I came back to where what is broken is automatically mine, and immediately was handed two malfunctioning electronic gerbils.
We have an arrangement, an old friend and I. For what I am. He'll see. "You don't even know, do you," I was asked. I know enough to know how to unknow what my story demands my ignorance of; none of us will ever know how many times I've done so. We are player and stage.