"I was lying down when I heard a knock on the door. Unwilling to get up from my rest, I decided to ignore it. Maybe they will just go away, I thought to myself. I wasn’t that lucky; the pounding on the door continued. Next, I heard the stern voice of a man.

“‘Mr. Stokes, this is the police. Please open the door, or we’re going to force it in.’ They waited a couple seconds and then the man kept his promise. The doorframe shattered in the place where the deadbolt penetrated into it. Men in uniforms swarmed into the room, prepared for the worst. Instead, they found me on the couch, harmless. You should have seen the look on their faces as they looked around the room. You would have thought that they’d never seen the inside of a collector’s house. They pulled me off the couch with unnecessary force; I didn’t complain. I never expected the handcuffs, though. It wasn’t like I was dangerous or anything. They walked me out to the police car and pushed me inside, laughing. How nice that they found humor in it.

“They had no idea where to start. Everything had to be taken in as evidence. It took days. Every single item had to photographed, bagged, and numbered. Then there was the process of filling out the accompanying forms. It’s too bad they wouldn’t let me watch that process. 147,208. That’s exactly how many pieces of evidence they collected. Of course, it was difficult to tell whether some of what they took was actually evidence. I had been living with it all for so long, I had forgotten what was actually mine. Some of the items surprised me; I had no idea that they were even in my possession. At one time I must have known why I chose them, but that was so long ago. Lately, it had become more about the process. The end result was arbitrary.

“I never knew how they finally figured it out. I was so careful. I didn’t leave any trace behind. Each store was carefully chosen. Every single trinket was the epitome of the idea. Everything was done according to plan. It was all very precise. I had followed my goals for the last 27 years. My life was my work, and my work was my life. This project was the only thing that kept me alive. It was meant to be art, an art of the mind, but I doubt the police saw it that way. I’m sure the store owners didn’t see it that way either. They just wanted what was rightfully theirs. But they didn’t share the same connection to the items that I did. They didn’t understand what it was that I was looking for. Of course they didn’t, though. How could they?

“They had no idea how long I had been at it. They didn’t understand just how meticulous the process was. Everything had to be perfect in order for it to finish as planned. That was where I went wrong; I made a mistake. After 9832 days, which seemed like the blink of an eye, I let myself slip. Had I been too friendly with the store owner? Is that why he suspected me? Or perhaps I seemed too disconnected for him to believe my story. I had been telling the same story since that first day, with a few variations depending on the location. I didn’t want to make myself sound too exotic. At the same time, I didn’t want to seem like a cliché small town gentleman. I was a writer before I embarked on this adventure, so the prospect of creating my own stories was just an added bonus.

“The police asked me so many questions that first day that it felt like my head was spinning. I told them that they wouldn’t be able to understand my reasoning behind it. They wouldn’t be able to comprehend the process of an artist. They spent their days driving around in their two-toned cars, chasing criminals, and writing parking tickets. Some of them had never even gotten out from behind a desk. What did they know about the real world? Did they spend the better part of the last 27 years traveling between the 50 states? They weren’t the ones that went through more cars than most dealerships. All that time to think. All that time spent alone in a car with nothing but the radio. It was enough to drive even the most composed person mad. I was able to develop my process during that time. I was able to perfect my style.

“After I finished telling them my story, they stared at me, amazed. How would you respond to what I did? It was all my own choice, though. I understood the consequences. I knew that once they finished cataloguing all the evidence, my life would be over. I was wrong though. Instead of a devastating ending, it was like waking up from a bad dream. The attention I received was tremendous. The art community was completely taken aback by my work. They didn’t know how to accept it, but they wanted to try.

“That’s why I’m here talking to you today, to try and spread the word about my show. It’s everywhere. With so many objects, it is possible to split them up without completely removing the meaning. The stores are donating all of the objects and dropping all the charges. It is amazing how much people care about art.”

He is sitting there just looking at me. This man is the leading interviewer for the biggest newspaper in California, and he has nothing to say to my story. The pencil in his hand taps intermittently on his tiny notepad as he avoids eye contact. His people skills are poor. He is exactly the kind of person that isn’t able to understand my work. He is here questioning me, but he isn’t interested. I can tell by his body language.

“What is the purpose of this work? What exactly are you attempting to say with this overwhelming multitude of objects?” he manages to slip out. Not the question I am expecting, of course. If he is asking that question, I know he is completely oblivious to what I just spent the last half hour explaining to him. Instead of answering his question, I decided to leave him with my own question:

“How do you expect your work to impact other people?”