Just behind the lilac hedge, I see my house. It is beautiful, but I am always aware of the moss on the shutters, the weeds obscuring the path, and the soot blackening the chimney. It could be better. I could make it better, but I've got other things to accomplish.
Down at the mill, there is my coworker, my neighbor. He sounds smart, but somehow always manages to get lost on his way home from work, bounce all of his checks, and forget where he put his house key. I could help him. I could help him but I've got my own set of problems.
In my cellar, there is a machine. It is capable of making 10 lumps of clay every hour. I love spending time thinking of ways to make even more lumps of clay every hour. It gives me satisfaction even though every lump produced is colorless, has no conceivable meaning, purpose or use, and will most likely break apart within 30 minutes of being formed. Every day I apply my spare time to thinking about how to make them last longer. What an accomplishment it will be when I finally solve this problem and have all the lumps I could possibly want.
I hear every day people talking about machines of one sort or another. Some produce lumps of wood, some produce lumps of straw. I've even heard of some that produce lumps of wind.
But the world has never seen anything like my machine. No one but me will ever figure out how to make lumps of clay faster than they will break.
I'm so glad I found a good way to spend my time.