I am never alone in the forest. Everything breathes at me. I don’t need to eat hardly anything. In the trailer, where the fire tempts with its heat when I want the darkness at a distance, I have food hidden inside boxes.
In that place everything fingers the air, uncertain of which treasures to light upon. Everything becomes singular and demands inviolable rights. Everything sings of itself inside.
In the forest, everything is everything. What we need, we take. Sometimes things are taken in great gulps but mostly everything sips a little at everything else. We are only happy if there is misery. Only violent if there is peace to shatter. Everything rises so seamlessly from everything else, there is no need for names.
Here is the place of purple flowers among the brown-orange needles. The dash of mid-afternoon sun cuts across the purple trunks in alchemies that color the light. A scent of resin and rot bakes into the air. Somewhere there is lavender.
How can words make sense of it?
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