The longer I live the more pain at every remembrance, every recollection, and every revisitation of the forest seeded long ago. 

The longer I live the thinner my skin, translucency revealing an alien presence: someone there but not there; broken branches and crumbling bark. 

The longer I live the less words seem to matter, they shatter like aging glass mirrors meeting fists in fits of alienation; no windfall, merely trunks uprooted by the wrathful wind of ages.