Dear Grant,
I am a thief.
I stole this pile of dirt. 
I stole the idea of this pile of dirt, not for malicious reasons, but to illustrate my idea of a pile of dirt. It was just sitting there for the taking and I took it so I could show it to you.
How have you been? Sir Ricky Charles spoke of your presences (you and your love) when our paths (his & mine) crossed last month. The meeting was quite a coincidence - you were just moments away, but my path was an escape route and it ran a different course than your own.
I have been spending a great amount of time here in Skull Tower with my machines. They are big and heavy contraptions - old and antiquated after all this time, yet they are still quite precise. I clean them. I oil them. I keep them running for everyone. They tell the same stories of humanity over and over and over again. Humans are simple creatures with conspicuous problems. Power is a problem. Pain is a problem. People are a problem.
My machines tell me different stories. They tell me to eat my soup. One big pot a week, just like my grandfather did before me. I fill it with meat and potatoes and carrots and celery and spices. I (now) never use rice because I am a patriot.
My grandfather was a patriot. He found his passion in a pile of dirt. He used old antiquated machines to stretch his pile of dirt out for miles and in those long black lines he planted twigs. Year after year, he would harvest his twigs and soon he had millions of twigs. When I arrived at his long pile of dirt he gave some of those twigs to me. This is what good patriotic grandfathers do.
After a standard period of time went by, I took my twigs and traded them in for knowledge and ideals. This was my grandfather's patriotic wish. I found that the world was populated with others full of knowledge and ideals, this was exciting. We were a brigade of like-minded individuals confronting these problems with our surroundings. This is what people like us do and this is what previous generations of patriots did before us. I know these things because my machines have told us this. They tell us over and over to fight, to rebel, to strike out at what stands in our way, to tear down that which towers over us and then they tell me to eat my soup.
My belly is full now, it grows larger and softer with each passing day. The fight is fleeting and I am wishing for some lean anger, some cut and run rebellion, something raw and authentic. Is this unpatriotic? Should I be finding contentment and well-being in machines and soup and a soft round belly or is this just what patriotism has become?
My grandfather made twigs before me and I have replaced my twigs with the ideals of machines.
I am afraid I have made a horrible mistake...