Someday, some effete, clothed pussies will define my life dismissively as ‘nasty, brutish, and short.’ Wondering what they could possibly do to make a dent in their environments, how to reach an audience larger than themselves, to be known, they will deossify in their cubicles and garrets, posting status updates, twittering links, vanity-publishing novels, tacking up doctored photos of other people’s buildings, and tracing 250-year-old wallpaper patterns. What’s the point, they will wonder; how can anyone better the thirty-thousand-year wake rolling out from the respite I took of hirsute, carnal savagery to place my hand on this rock?