I am an architect

I roll out on my beaten table a blueprint for a house. It stares back at me waiting for it to be put to life. I study it keenly and know its edges and lengths.
I lay the foundation from only a few hours of studying the large notes. The skeleton comes next, and I hammer and screw the wood together with the correct layouts, following the well-drawn schematics piously.
To stray from the directions would be to kill the building, of which I would never do. My well-mindedness is what keeps my work on par, what keeps this house correct.
I begin to shackle the walls and ceilings together, to give true meaning to this developing giant. I look back at the blueprints and see that I am looking at a mirror from building to drawing--my production is coming complete.
Little steeples and turrets I build on vertices of the growing house, a design of beautiful and classiness that touches the eye of all who look. I dress the designs and angles with colors of a virtuoso, creating stunning works of infinite beauty.
I have built an organism of wood and stone, of metal and bricks, of paint and beauty, I am an architect.