Welcome to my palace. You won’t find a place to sit. If you see a fire hazard, I don’t really give a shit. Nature does abhor a vacuum, and for that matter, a broom. Might as well cultivate abundance if you only have a room. There are cites in our bodies and living on our skin. It’s a teeming microcosm of the stew we’re cooking in, and I’ve got hoards of information: you’ll all be breaking down my door when the poo poo hits the rotor and there’s internet no more. I like to think I’ve founded the world’t smallest city state, an autonomous protectorate financed by Section 8. Mom had a nasty temper. She could give you quite a scare, so I found myself a closet: I spent a lot of time in there. Eventually I started stashing snacks there on the sly, ‘cuz you never knew how long she’d have that vacuum in here eye. Well, OK. It’s OK. Sometimes I just sit and watch the shadows grow outside.