sometimes i feel like the tree that gets cut down to make a book that never gets read. it just sits alone in the back of some dusty forlorn bookshop, tables etched deep with coffee rings and carved initials. grown from the forest floor without notice. notched, cut deep, and dropped, chipped, cut, drenched with water, screened, dried, printed, sold, and forgotten. home forever in a quiet room, yellowing against a back drop of fake stories and fading ink. this is not a book you would want to read, but might have been a tree you would have climbed.