::: I have this reoccurring vision in which I am a short-order cook at a diner. But, this diner serves only to houses. Regular boxy types, split level ranches, sprawling suburb mcmansions. They fill up the booths, pouring out the benches with their girthy extensions and built on garages. And boy, are they hungry; they are as hungry as houses. They order more and more food.

"More siding here!"

"Hardyplank! Another order of hardyplank!"

"Hey! I asked for extra nails! There aren't enough nails in my boards!"

"This trim is stale! Get me MORE!"

I run back and forth, prepping items to go out to the tables and fetching various ingredients and tools. I pull nails out of 2 x 4 and hammer them back in to 2 x 6. I cut a sheet of T111, blow off the sawdust, find its too short, throw it out and start again. I load stapler and cover insulation, only to have it boil over, run out of staples, and have to go back to the fridge for more. The houses are ravenous and are starting to peer into the kitchen with impatience and disgust. I try to paint a sheet of plywood only to have it begin to rain in the kitchen. The color runs to the floor, and I know it is fruitless to send it out as it will only be sent back.

There is a spreadsheet standing in the corner. He takes up no space as people and large objects are grunted back and forth. Fading and becoming more and more transparent, he winks at me before disappearing completely.:::

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