Laughing when the sun comes out. Terrestrial and looking to land. The night spins glorious and warm; [we] are left with nothing but the ashes of a lived day — some sort of celebration still dancing haptic in the mind. This tree looms, tearing your attentions away from the lesser and indiscriminate. The page spools before the writer like a slate or an apparition unfulfilled. I attempt simple languages felled from branches more knowledgeable than mine. You be the judge.
