“From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.” – Franz Kafka

The wooden box was made to look like an antique book. The dust jacket was designed like an ancient map. The lid was tied by cotton twine. Inside the cover there was a message left many years ago. Back when love seemed like forever. It’s false pages were misleading from the outside just as the message was misleading within. Inside the box were poetic words and ghost stories.

The tree was always special. He found it by accident. Its twisted roots were pulled half from the earth. It rested on its side like a sleeping giant taking shallow breaths as it buried its branches into the ground. He took you to the tree, his special place. His refuge. His calm. The tree was him and he was the tree. He showed you the tree. He watched you climb its branches and rest under its limbs.

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