âThere is a house on a hill, and there are people in it. And theyâre nice, but not really. There is a garden, and there they get a lot of sunlight. And it is nice, and they get to sleep there sometimes.
There is a house underground, and there are people in it. And theyâre the first to tell you that theyâre not very nice: theyâre con-men, grifters, forgers and imposters. They sit among stink bugs, and theyâve been there for so long that maybe theyâve convinced themselves that they just belong there.
There is a rock, and it is a gift, but it is also a burden. And maybe itâs a metaphor, but itâs also just a rock: solid and heavy, difficult to lug around, and dangerous in the wrong hands. Some people will tell you that itâs supposed to bring wealth. But again, itâs also just a rock.
There is a line, and it cannot be crossed.
There is a smell, and it comes from the underground. And the people who live in the house on the hill can smell it. And the people who live underground try to imagine a life in the sun, a future where they arenât just garbage to be washed away in the rain. But there is a smell that sticks to them, and they know that they can never really belong.
There is a world, and it is nice, but not really. There are houses on hills, and houses underground. There is plenty of sun, but it isnât for everybody. There are people grateful to be slaves, and people unhappy to be served. There are systems that we are born into, and they create these lines that cannot be crossed. And we all dream of something better, but weâve been living with these lines for so long that weâve convinced ourselves that there really isnât anything to be done.
There is a knife. And it doesnât do much in the long run, but there will always be some satisfaction in crossing some lines.â
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