So. What do you do now? Do you turn back? Do you keep walking. Do you sit down on the faded yellow bench?

The other day I heard this mountain weep on the air. It was sad. The mountain I had lived on. It crumbled.

Standing there I heard the thunder and felt lightening cracking through my spine. I tottered. There was much silence and less movement. There still is.

How in the world? There's only a few leaves you keep in your books. Three in total. And there's people. With heaps buried between their pages. How then, does the wind need one of your three? How then, does one of your three need the wind?

If only there was music that never faded or stopped. Then you'd be a tree, and the rest of the universe would be the tip of a pin.

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