Farm

 

“I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff--I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.”

You know what I’d like? I’d like to have a little house on a big farm. Not a farm that grows animals or crops of any kind, just a farm for a farm’s sake. Maybe I’ll grow some fruits, nothing too showy, just whatever grabs my fancy. I’d have a cosy little spot in my bedroom where I’d sit and write my little stories all day. And I’d have three big dogs- some kind that would love to run and roam around my big farm, maybe a german shepherd or a border collie or something. And I’d wake up in the morning and whistle out into my great green nothingness, and my three dogs would run at me from three different directions to greet me. I think that would be quite nice.

I’m going to listen to good old Jeff Buckley and go to sleep now. I'm just so tired. Hopefully, I wake up on my farm.

“Smile, my boy, it's sunrise!”