A tree. Its roots ancient. Its trunk tall, strong…stout. Branches unlimited looming like a crowd of arms reaching and groping. Twigs extended pointing towards a horizon of what else but more trees. The leaf, the final frontier, the furthest extension of the green, yellow and red beast. So delicate and fragile, with little effort in could be picked and crushed…yet millions are prepared to take its place. All of this beauty bound together from the past…the past when this tree was nothing but a little seed no bigger than a the tip of this pencil. All of this bounty bound together by ropes after it is torn apart by axes. I am able to have my pencil. Thank you. I able to sit down. Thank you. I am able to smoke. Thank you. I am warm. Thank you.