No One Wants
In a parallel life I would create a big machine as large as a desk with which I could send a facsimile of whatever is on a sheet of paper to someone who might have an identical machine. I might build a metal thing with twenty-six or more little disks which I could depress rapidly, sort of banging upon these disks with either of my index fingers. I probably would use a tiny ink roller and apply ink to each of the individual twenty-six letters of the alphabet just moments before striking the disk. Or possibly some sort of inky ribbon to sit patiently between the alphabetic ends of the depressed disks and a sheet of paper upon which I would be making marks to send in facsimile form from one desk-size machine to another.
Or, in this other life I might also make other machines and paint things or put words onto paper by some simple means. These things and activities could also be as unneeded and undesired as those products I make in so-to-speak-fancy life. My fancy life is the one from which I compose this collection of sequential words.
In the future the old becomes new. Peacock feathers will be carved into writing quills, dipping their points into bowls of ink from squid. The skins of lambs will be bound between calfskin flaps. People will find new uses for parking meters. Babysitting and dog walking will become obsolete skills.
Until these things come to pass, I will continue to make things that no one needs, until they need them.
Each painting and every written piece an island of escape.