"Diary of a Windmill: I am an image of the purpose of work. The work that defines the romance of maintenance, much like the maintenance of my ancient turbines that mull out the detritus of surplus against this landscape upon which I have been erected. This landscape from where I attempt a biography for the good of work. To provide a truism of an ethic applied upon the horizon. Even though I may be simple, built not of too many parts, yet even as I stand here withered before you, I am missing some pieces. But be there no need to build me back together again as I am filled with the most elegant holes. My doors coming off hinges bedazzle my being as I am overcome by the sounds from the moaning and loosening of bolts. My pockmarks are an exquisite bliss left to brandish lichen for jewels. Screws and nuts a flutter from my personage like an abundance of leaves against the clamour of my bare barked limbs in the now autumn of my constitution...."