Pseudotopophilia
Coming to a clearing in the Reubenzanian woods, Max encounters a phalanx of castles. All of them labeled accordingly: MOM | DAD | ALEX | EM, and even a squat one for PIXIE, where a rectilinear dog sits wagging its tail at the threshold, waiting for its master, pining for a pixel-bone.
Cresting at the tippy treetops, the glittering structures tower over everything, staggering in their ornateness: external winding staircases, stain glass windows, bejeweled columns, steeples thumbing slabclouds, dozens of arches and decorative nuances along the automatic block drawbridges all unfurling in his presence like great flat tongues.
In the moat, squaresharks bobbing for blood.
Between his own house and his wife’s, a plain wooden house sits, mediocre in comparison. KING REUBEN the sign says. As he steers his avatar toward it, Pixie bounces after him, trailing his heel. Up close, it is apparent the house was rushed. Composed of various blocks (mostly wood, but concrete, grass, and even some sand) it is unapologetically asymmetrical. Lop-sided and pathetic.
So Max begins to hammer out the out-of-place blocks. To shave it up. Make it straight make it perfect.
But stops. Suddenly stung with shame. Stands there as a soft serenade of bleeps trickle through the speaker, and one by one, he is adding back the blocks until it’s exactly the way it was before he ruined it. Before he saw fit to wreck it.
Exactly the way it was, which was fine.
Which was beautiful.
Which was perfect.