Maybe I'll go to the country. Maybe I'll buy a farm and raise livestock, grow corn, shear sheep, bale hay late on cool fall evenings. I can write into my diary bucolic thoughts. Or maybe I can make-up stories like the recluse Salinger and keep them hidden. Posthumous fame might come to me. My works taught in college courses. Theories may abound about my genius, my strange obsession with aloneness. Or I could do something else: stay where I am and blog in relative obscurity, always trying to free up a clogged soul that afflicts me and so many of us in this modern age.