I like to believe that I’ll write best selling books for a decade to come, that money and health will last until I die suddenly in my sleep, my obit featured in the NY Times. I tell myself that one more burger with fries won’t hurt me. Electronics are made by sweetly smiling fairies in cloud castles, and they build happiness into every app. Pine trees applaud their fallen pulp-paper heroes. Corn is always picked by hand and sold by children at family farm stands. An oil well releases the souls of dinosaurs trapped too long in mucky graves. These ancient beasts crave sunny beaches where sea birds use crude oil for sunscreen. Mule deer hold meetings to study the long asphalt meadows filled with herds of speeding creatures. “How fast,” they say. “Could we learn to travel there?” And break their legs trying to emulate Cougars and Mustangs rushing past, though not like the breeds they’ve seen before. I could go on, but my imported French roast coffee is cooling and my musical phone needs a sip of the energy that flows freely from the wall.