Rumpus-room for the mind.

The wallpaper is Animaniacs and I've got a jungle gym built entirely out of Lincoln Logs and Play-Doh.

There's a Lite-Brite in the corner, which always has a smiley face (but I change the color of the eyes every day for variety, and sometimes she winks).

There's an infinite variety of Legos.

Beethoven's Ode to Joy can be faintly heard in the background under a Muzak-type tape loop of Robin Williams, Steve Martin, Bill Hicks and Monty Python.

My inner-child never has sex, but he keeps becoming better friends with the girl next door. He loves it when those games of Bonkers or Payday or even Monopoly degenerate into playful wrestling matches that somehow always make him think of the odd and messy adult practice of kissing.

You may notice in my play-pen the distinct absence of any computer, not even an iMac.

There's lots of musical instruments that can be banged upon, like drums and bass and a piano, and no instruments that require electricity. My inner-child sings alot.

This playpen is an odd region, a religion of its own making, where I don't feel the need to consume drugs because I am drugs.

An infantile mind is a truly beautiful thing, and a great defense against a tech-support job driving one mad.

She likes to watch the mobile made of worlds far away.
She spins them, slowly, toying with their orbits.
She stares at the spirals, cloudy little planets. She blows on them and they are propelled quietly across space, this is the space she plays in.
They look up and see her eyes amazing shining moons with rings of sky.
The little somethings love her, quietly, there voices are so small.
When she is older she can gently change them, experimenting.
gently. slowly. sending them small gifts. they love her.
but she knows that she must never


kiss her galaxy

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