And I realized it was because I had no stories in me. The lifeless garden had removed me from language. There were no light-dappled leaves, no mushroom rings, no fathomless well; there were no hilltops for the wolves to roam against, bleak as the swallow of my life. And there was no one else, either. Only my own solitude, and rumors of a home which, so too, fades more and more with the passing season. My own arms atrophy, being held outwards for so long, being so empty. And I dig up little graves, each full with some sickly machinery of want, their humiliation. I am caught in their eyes, like owls in the deep wood.
What should I ask of the thing I am? I want my griefmouth to slacken, the violent furrows to fold over, for true rest, and for stories again. Let something else walk this wood beyond me.