biography of the dead and damned, as told by mr fizzywinks
There was a tree.
It was a small tree. An insignificant tree. A tree that had been battered about just a little too much. It was a tree with barely any leaves on its branches. A tree whose roots didn't reach deep enough to tap water. A tree who should have dried out long ago - but still persevered despite the brutality of nature. It was a tree who had never seen enough sun, and yet still made an attempt to stick itself upright. It was a tree who had faced many blades, hacking at its trunk, but had been saved by its own pathetic stance. It was a tree. And I would look at it, every single day, standing its own guard out on the moors. And each day I would wake up, look out the window, and breathe a sigh of relief that the wind hadn't yet taken it down.
xoxo;;
fuck sincerely
Scaramouche
end.transmission