I want to be a cult figure, but I am just a pretty moose. I rub my beautiful fur against the bark of the birch. I wrap my silken tongue around the milkweed growing in the pond.

I want to make movies. Funny movies with a depth of feeling reserved for an artistic genius that skulks around the forest, day-dreaming of a simple yet powerful film about a young Afghani immigrant who works in a Henna-grinding factory in Iran.

I want to write beautiful, inter-stellar love poems that represent a concrete manifestation of my emotional center. I want to feel fashionably alone, alienated from my peers in a Falkner-esque manner, the bears and the wolves howling, their paws and claws carving my way into a journey deep into the forest.

I want to feel a love of life. I want not to be afraid of the coffee shops and the fashionable Caucasians doling out donuts from half-open car windows.

I can appreciate them from afar. I can be a compassionate lover.

I have lain on the forest floor alone on most major holidays lamenting my divorce, my financial status, and my lack of motivation.

There must be more to life than a good fiber diet.

My moans of despair go unnoticed.

I suffer, unseen, in the vast emptiness of the state park.

The bears run by me, ignoring my loneliness.

I have a small mind but at least I am beautiful.

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