Log Cabin I've seen the cabin from all the angles. Noticed the irregular imperfections... the abrasive texture that creates depth. Impervious to disease, the inmates are wrapped in blankets and stricken with warmth from the stove. I wander with importance over this log cabin's land. Pick shrubs and pop them in my mouth and graze over them with my efficient tastebuds. My old brown jacket. My chiseled chin. My untied shoes, full of muck. Damn the dwellers. I look over these exact coordinates of the world and plan my wrath over them. Smash through the cabin's see-through sections. Gaping mouths to my delight. This land is sacred now. Free from inmates so I can continue muffling.