17 March 2007
whenever we see these trees of green, and their children, seedlings, fleeing the earth, we want to be the same. grow so big and so tall and so fast that we never had time to look back. they were buried in the dirt so long, the cold unforgiving dirt is where they lived. that's what they called home. the light shines now, but might dry them up. they'll never learn what it means to be. they're deceased. how fortunate they've already a grave. let them rot and enhance the future generations. i will plant my hand, and grow a finger tree with finger nail leaves. the fruit will fall down and do things. and delicate surgeries. my finger tree broke its back and did no more dexterous deeds. all the death and plain to ensue is my fault. blame me.
Posted by Daniel Bolton at 22:32