Well, the mental woods at least. Imagine me as Henry Dave Thoreau sans beard, packing up my things to live a simple life in the woods. I'm going there mentally. I have a few topics I would like to discuss, but I haven't gotten them down on virtual paper.
I find that as I fall asleep at night I am thinking about what I want to write. I hope my hippocampus is storing all of these mental flashes. One bit is about my aunt wanting me to use my talents to write romance novels. Another topic is adversity. I'd love to start going on and on about the current road to a tyranny, but if I start waxing political I'll scare some of you away. Let's just leave the political statement to this for now: too many things are being done secretly and without the other two branches of government having any balancing force. UGH, I'm trying not to type more. I'm really having a hard time resisting. Stop now. Stop. Just stop.
Okay, all better. Changing a poopy diaper will do that for you. World perspective goes away in the face of utter stink.
So, let me go to the mental woods for a bit. This is prose below, but it is quite poetic in meaning.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of live, and see if I could learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.--From Walden, by Henry David Thoreau