The House on the Hill

Hello.

This is my house. Do you like it? I built it.

It stands there, on the hill. Can you not see it? Ah, but it seems that your eyes water, the trees fold, the fog deepens, whenever you look at my house. I must apologize. I keep them out, you see. Those that would come, and change my house. I keep them from seeing. I keep them from entering, because then they'd start to change it.

This is my house. Do you like it? I painted it.

This is my domain. I control it. Everything is made by me. I am as a god here. The trees grow me fruit, the plants give their roots, and the animals are culled for meat. They are mine, I alter them, I engineer them. The house powers itself. I am independent. I am free.

This is my house. Do you like it? I live in it.

If you want to live in my house, you are more than welcome to. But I make the rules; after all, it is my house, not yours. You will eat when I eat. You will sleep when I sleep. You will live as I live. You will watch what I watch; you will play what I play. It is my house, after all.

This is my house. Do you like it? I will die in it.

You don’t like it? You want to leave? You are like all the others. I’ll never understand why others do not see why my house is so great. I built it. I painted it. I live in it. All is by me. They just have to obey some rules. It is my house. Not theirs.

This is my house. I will live in it. I will die in it.

Alone.