None of my business matters out here. I am infinitesimally small among a forest at night. Nothing about me is significant here and never was and never will be. There is a little breeze now pushing through the black trees. I see nothing but branches and sky.
Dead leaves rise and clatter on the cold ground.
There is nothing else. There is no reason to be out here. But it holds me captive still, as one would stare, trancelike into a campfire. I am like a sinner in church, and I know it.