A is for Story

Apples in the cheeks; swallows for tongues. In this forest there is no clear way to your heart of hearts. As night falls, I fear the space between shadows. I've left my crumbs behind.

And the shingled hut turns on it's single crooked leg away from my dagger. Every tree here bleeds a life and a song. Where then should I go if not forward into the heart of this story? Grimmer than grim.

It's not the moral at the end that matters but how we interact with the text. Snowfall to matches and hearts to sea foam.

I live, I die, my story remains. ...

And you my dear with your thoughtless words and even more thoughtless world, leave no trace.