Meditation on buying drywall screws

The hardware store has a distinct lovely smell. Each aisle contains the potential of labor, the potential of the accomplishment of building or repairing, of cleaning or lighting or moving electricity from one place to another, hopefully avoiding the body as conductor or even conduit (and the taste of pennies). There is metal and wood and rubber and plastic. There is paint and paint thinner and solvents and solutions. I wander, not knowing anything, imagining chain jewelry and chain weapons measured from spools, hats made of orange funnels, music in a drill bit, laughter from a ball cock. With knowledge and the right tools, any wish can be granted. In a hardware store, a man becomes a child, small but vast.
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