Think I'll go live in a shack spending all my days drawing glasses and tied back hair on swimsuit pinups, chucking darts at naughty parts and assigning points for obscure hits, 43 for Fimbria ovarica, a swollen flood-damaged Gray's Anatomy in the corner, the pages gradually torn out for rectal and nasal cleansing, the only mirror small and smudged and hung in a place where I only see me from chin on down, beard grown in and hair grown out, a Bible in the corner and the words in my heart, making (and breaking) New Year's resolutions as if I were a dog, but in all likelihood, not at all, sending a donkey down to a garden seven miles away to grab me fruit and vegetables, natives know the drill, beast comes back fully loaded and I say "Nice ass, have an apple," and go back to thinking of clever things to say if people ever come a-knockin' ("Why don't I come back to civilization? Well why doesn't Superman suck on a kryptonite lollipop?"), but remembering that just because it's funny doesn't mean it's right, just because I'm mildly tapping on truth doesn't mean I'm pursuing what I want to pursue—life's about choices, you know?—but nobody comes around that intends to come around, just a straggly looking straggler that ends up thinking, no thanks, I'll pass, and leaves me to pray and find out more about Jesus, the assumption that I'm just hearing me in empty spaces, perhaps I rolled a 15-passenger van in the desert, sipped a gasoline martini by the pool I'd take a dip in later, dove head first into those mirages, my head full of sand regardless, toasted the sun as I got toasted, stared at it until the middle of my eyes burned black, stumbled out here to my shack, and thwack another dart goes in, 62 points for . . . well, that page is gone, but I'm here, wearing nothing but boxers, my floor closet now just a pile of underpants and oversized sweaters, the ones that itch you just enough into comfort, using my teeth as the original nail clippers, thinking about how I used to listen to music so that I had a choice on what noise surrounded me, daydreaming of becoming a Mary Kay cosmetic consultant for all of nature, driving my pale pink car around my pale pink life while white trash becomes platinum trash in L.A.lujah, praise be to all the wrong things, but me enough miles away writing novels on typewriters without ink, playing songs on guitars without strings, and making them all masterpieces, all because when people say, "I love you," I say,        .

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Colin McKay Miller is a writer and volunteer prison minister from Edinburgh, Scotland.