Echoes. Dreams. Elaborations.

Dad, says I, I dont know what to be when I grow up. You know how to build houses, do that. You have a trade, you are lucky. But I would rather make pictures. I want to be a painter. An artist. You are going to have to do something else to make money. What's wrong with being a carpenter? I'm worried that I'll cut my hand off. The tools are real dangerous and they work you until you cant see straight. And if I cut my hand off then I wont be able to paint the picture that will make it all mean, the one I was born to paint. Paint it with your teeth, then, if you were born to paint it, you will. Thanks dad. You're welcome, son. I'm off to prison, now.