I like the look of a clean, straight, unbroken line drawn in ink. No one can draw freehand such a perfect line as a machine can easily draw. Some say the circle signifies perfection. But the line is not only perfect—it is infinitely simpler. That is why if it were up to me we would all be living in filthy little holes in the city with no heat or electricity or running water, and there would be no such thing as the suburbs, or, what is required for the suburbs to exist, gasoline. We would live as we did when we lived in caves—only there are plenty and plenty of dwellings for us now—the city is full of them. But say everything is how it is now, and I am homeless. If I were homeless I would hunt people’s cats in alleys and residential neighborhoods, and live off the fat of the land—I would live well, I assure you, meat every night, a plentiful belly, a double chin. I and my cat would eat cats every night, roasting them on campfires by the Platte. I would dig a network of tunnels under the city and have bookshelves, writing desks, rooms with chairs and a bed, everything. In the dead of summer when everyone is sweltering, I would sit in these cool tunnels deep underground with a flashlight and read in the library; in the dead of winter when all the other homeless are getting frostbitten and going to shelters, I would sit by my hearth fire warming myself and feasting on roasted earthworms and the crawdads I would empty from the ponds in the city parks. O, it would be a good life, even better than the one I am living now. I live in a filthy little room—the kitchen has gone months without sweeping, the carpet is stained and covered in papers and trash, the toilet is covered in filth. I look about me and say, "Aren’t I living off the fat of the land?—a heated room all to myself, a full belly every night, running water, electricity, a stove, a refrigerator—I am really living large." When my mother comes to pick me up for lunch or something, she calls me from her car and tells me to come down—she doesn’t want to come up and see my filthy room, my filthy life. I say to myself, "This room is only a little hole, some cave I happened to come upon, and it is perfectly comfortable how it is. It would certainly be strange of me to keep a cave I happened to be sleeping in free of dirt and fungus and stains—that’s how nature is, after all."