They keep saying you’re from somewhere, but that’s not Home, is it? Dusty and mangled, you roll happily with the satisfaction of a five-year-old boy discovering his first mud puddle. With the gusto of an old fisherman smoking his forbidden pipe as he sways to the lullaby of his sea, uncaring about the number and the size of his capture.
They tell me that you’re here only to amuse the road with your mindless tumbling. A redeeming value. Yeah, I knew you’d do what I hoped you’d do– laugh at them really loud, shaking those twigs in mirth, and waving at them like you’re swatting a wayward fly. They don’t know what we know: only the most Promethean of artists are worthy of molding you into a masterpiece, and until then, you journey, you dream.
I know because we’re kindred spirits. Hey, Tumbleweed, would you please take me with you?