The forrest is a place where a man might go and loose himself. The cascading beauty of the earth flows fourth sometimes - but most often only for those with the eyes to see it, and the ears to hear it, and the will to know it.

And the trees, they breathe. And the wind shakes branches that might've otherwise not seen a shake. And if it is as if God's breath is that which shakes these branches.

Birds chirping make the forrest their home. The order of monk which is the chip has also found solitude in the forrest. Eagles screaming and owls hooting and turkeys running wild.

The forrest is and will always be that which has always been.

And to be able to call this place home, Sandy Seamus still, after these years out in these woods, felt the thrill of the wind every morning he stepped onto the porch. And he always, every morning when he opened his eyes, thanked God for the opportunity to do so.

He could remember when this place was still truly wild. Before commodification took hold. Before the real estate tycoons and land developers moved in.

People like Earl fucking Bankston and the damn Wantanabees.

It wasn't truly their land. It was land. Land has no true owner, no true investor, no corporate interests. Land simply iss, and thus it will always be. Sometimes, land chooses not to like the people on top of it, and so it eats them. Land eats them by shifting underground and flipping upside-down. Land's stomach liner is an earthquake. A tsunami is icing on a cake. And lava flowing is the desert.

Land hates land developers. And so it eats them.