I fancy myself a fine craftsman with fortitude enough for a mansion, someone who adorns, with gold filigree, the polished, stained pine and keeps each room appointed, waiting for the assessor’s gaze. Had I known it was my home I was crafting, I would have squatted upon a pond and been someone who has enough fire and just enough wood to live.
Little boy, you just have a patch to hide your nakedness. Patch after patch — too much needlework — until you are emperor. All patched up, no place to go.