I want metal.
Boxes and boxes of soft, white metal, sculpted into fantastic shapes worthy of dreams and nightmares.
When I was a kid my parents would let us pore over the Sears catalog and circle the toys we most wanted Santa to bring us. We always ended up dog-earing and circling almost every page in that section of the book.
My Privateer Press catalog would look the same way if I let myself write on the pages. And don't get me started on Vallejo paints or Reaper minis.
I feel: covetous