At night, there are creatures that hang on the oak trees outside. They create bizarre shadows, that occasionally dance, if the mood strikes them. No one should look directly at them or suffer the consequences, which if known, are not spoken. It isn’t nice to disturb the supernatural.
I may have imagined this, but I am never sure anymore. Not in the way that fantasy has begun to blend with reality. But in the way that fatigue hangs on my eyes, as if they were oak trees, and I don’t care to think more than I have to. And if I really have to, I would say I don’t think there are any oak trees outside.
I have always liked trees, even after Robert told me his friend had a hand in killing a man, and burying the body next to one. That’s what happens when you’re not a very nice person who shoots rabbits, he said. Or at least, I think that’s what he said. I can’t be too sure anymore. Not because I am losing my mind, but because I never had much of one to begin with.
Things with roots cannot leave you. They will never speed off, in search of a depth your love could not provide. A willow will not say it is off to have a talk with Jesus, on Solsbury Hill. I can say that it would of benefit to remain with me, since I am in possession of the Lance of Longinus, but it’s clear that what I have is just a pen.