Joseph, though a friend of mine, was a conspiracy theorist in the truest sense;
In the sense that he spent the grand majority of his waking hours type-writing
theories around which conspiracy might arise. His entire domain, a some-small-number
by some-small-number, void of window, single-bedroom, single-door apartment in the
basement of a building with only one floor, had been carefully adorned. To the East,
chalk, board, to the West, maps, globes, to the South, (news)paper, pins, string,
cork, to the North, (particularly-placed, he assured), a small computer, with
intermittent connection to the internet governed by cord. The single light switch
remained off. He justified that this decision had the environment in mind, but I
think he just felt the monitor was enough. It certainly painted a picture about the
kind of man he imagined himself to be, and in fact, the kind of man that he was.

His theories were elaborate, in a sense unending if you followed the trail cold, and
in his interpretation, there was just as much truth to everything he had written as
the whole thing was to a big joke.

The point was to be discerned, and he awaited the day when any brave traveler
wandering on a message board (all of which he carefully monitored) would call him on
his bluff(s). The real game began after several years without a word. He saw it
that, no one disputing his claims, no one to answer, prayers unanswered, there was
something* to his bold.

But he never let this line of thinking go to his head, it was all in the interest of
growing outward; To get away with another line, ((calculated, sometimes even trail
left)), and knowing that someday all the cards would come crashing to the ground.±

*This something was nothing, but he would never know.
± He would eventually meet this end in 2004, when the only other man (these parts)
to read as far as he had identified a slip up in a quote. It was a shameful way to
go. I was ashamed to be no longer in touch with Joseph by this time, but I thought
of him a lot. In 2008, Sarah ventured an impromptu trip to Wyoming to see her folks 
((the first time in ages)). She caught a glimpse of him (or, at least who she thought
was him) flipping a silver coin and reading "Past This Time of Suffering, Now, Now,
What is Left of You?" by Earnest Omes. She never approached. I sought a copy of that
book myself, finding only blank pages surrounding a single poem:

Rest, then, you've gathered all you'd set to do.
Play them for a fool.
And now, here, sipping drink and re-reading,
Wonder what ever compelled you.
Perhaps there was more there,
Old friends ((before you)),
Broken light switch,
The freedom to make it up as you went along,
There is no need to feel down,
Now, Now,
Only to carry on.