The actual world isn’t what it screens.
I dream, I read, I write of the real world. Of nature and life and of being. The real world, I think, is waking up in the morning, in the outside, by the water and with the animals.
One can live like this. Right here in Cambridge. But those who do, dream of a life of screens, of work, of warmth, of walls.
Leaking donated tents, hunger in the belly, drugs cooking on a spoon, dirt on the skin and cold in you hair. That is their actual world.