Dissecting the warehouse

I think living in a warehouse with all of my friends, drinking, computing and playing ping pong all day would be sick as fuarrrk.

Now, I can acknowledge this is child-wants-treehouse levels of delusion. I'm not stupid. Pragmatically, it's a nightmare. Financially, senseless. Legally, dubious. But ideologically? Ideologically I think it's great. A warehouse is fundamentally an unkind space. The platonic ideal of a warehouse is dirty, cold (emotionally and physically), altogether indifferent. In that indifference though, there's a romance. A one-sided affair of corrugated metal, chipped glass and steel. But anyway, i'm trying to be less poetic.

Isn't community great? Isn't it alluring to think it's as easy to acquire as rent, utilities and a reckless attitude towards long-term career development? Imagining is free if they haven't taken it from you yet! When does practicality totally subsume irrationality in personal fantasy? Does this conveyor belt end in a cheese wire? Am I such a pseud for liking the idea of endless conversation more than the conversations themselves? Do I even? So many questions and so little warehouse. If Socrates wasn't so fucking agonising to talk to maybe the people who like him wouldn't be such wankers. Even Plato had a warehouse!

It's probably not coincidental that alongside the warehouse all my other problems are solved. Ultimately, it's my fantasy and the cure for neuroticism is forgetting it exists. I've always been particular about places like that. A strong spacial memory and a pervasive dissociation from reality will just do that I think. Any thought in my head happens in a place, and i'm too aphantastic to conjure those on the spot, so I have to stick to my warped textual blueprints of reality.