A Shot Accross the Bow of My Distractors

This is where I escape into from what is so bugging my attentions out there. You cannot say one whole complete sentence out there without but some bugger comes around and does his or her thing that is like the world's thickest penny on the track of my mind in which my thoughts are the train which is about to do a backflip into some field. Nobody benefits from this except my enemies. Not saying that I am paranoid or what have you but it is conceivable that they do not want me to get anything done because believe you me I make no small plans and heads will roll if ever I can really uninterruptedly say what's on my mind and speak this truth to power. So all I have to do is close the door and get all ensconced or whatever and put pen to paper and write my own personal Kublai Khan in Xanadu so to speak and some metaphorical salesman is banging at the door and there I am poemless and I can taste the adrenaline and after I've mollified him or her and got back to my desk there it is: gone. Forever. This is why I have put that pile of concrete blocks in front of my door around which this afternoon you yelled in to me some muffled questions about why was I stockpiling building materials of such unsightly nature and don't you know I was about to crystallize after weeks of factfinding the crucial theoretical underpinning of what would have been my magnum opus, but those will have to wait for some future person to formulate them, maybe in, as I imagine it, his remote cave or treetop perch or completely soundproof underground hermitage. I envy him in his hermetic enclosure free from sudden sounds and disruptions such as disease, friends, family, excellent aromas, and the media. I am not one to get all hypothetical by any means but I do imagine that with a sufficiently thick soundproof barrier I could generate many great works of intense beauty and unimaginable revolutionary aptness. I say hypothetical because I do not currently possess the funds sufficient to this project and have thus far been able to acquire only approximately 90 concrete blocks, though even with these few I see some benefit and have enjoyed the mind game of: picturing what the IRS will do when they come and try to extricate me as the requisite bulldozer would be such a bad p.r. move on their part that surely the media exposure would make donations come out of the woodwork and one of my major distractions from my life's work would be solved, pronto. This is indeed a pleasant thought to entertain while I burn my phone bills and type this, my last epistle before they cut the power and the mortar dries.