I need structure; I crave comfort, so I tear up the grass and stomp the ground flat.
I want fortification; I'm addicted to geometric shapes. Put me in a box, I roar, as I charge at trees, bowling them over and stripping the bark with my fingers.
I am little bothered by the angry chittering of squirrels, the ugly caws of birds, or the splinters under my nails. I can deal with my wounds when construction is finished; for now I gather clay and mud. I will build the first building, and maybe then my compulsions will be quelled.