Hovel Sweet Hovel

With my new position as Director of Directions and with my new importance as a member of the Espionage Wing of the Trustee Class for The Apparatus and the ensuing freedom and authoritarian pass-cards I have been presented, I have obtained a certain modicum of confidence. Enough so that I feel I can reveal my home. Yes, my little The Apparatus Approved & Provided apartment.







As you can see, I have a window view.

And, books! The books are in Icelandic, a language I cannot read.

But, now that I feel the possibility of escape—true escape from Soybean Island—coursing through my veins, I find that I am little nostalgic, nay proud, of this little room I live in.



Yes, things can indeed be a matter of perspective.

And I realize, Dear Non-Reader that you no doubt scoff at my optimism, my feeling that I will soon be done of this place. Quit of it. But, I feel, that it is not a joke or am I fooling myself.

Look!

I have a sink!



I can bathe half my body in that sink.

(I am not telling you which half.)

And,

I have a light!




And a chair!!




Yes, a small chair but a chair nonetheless.

I believe I have a found a route to Dustmitetown,

I believe that in Dustmitetown is an airport.

A cargo airport.

Where the Dust Merchants ship their dust to all corners of the world.

And corn. And soybeans.

And rutabagas.



Hot and Cold!

(Though only the cold works.)

Anyway, that is all I dare share.  Now you can see where I have lived. I will not show my sleeping pallet. No. Let this suffice and let me not get carried away and caught within the dark and secretive hands of The Apparatus.

Something is afoot and I will be fleet.

I will claim myself as cargo in Dustmitetown.


Goodbye from Soybean Island