The pointless irrational cloud, gone bad after the collision of some winter caves drawn aside by waves on thick nothingness, relating to the unfortunate faith of a precious gem drop which is no more.
A deer, making it`s path through the rough roads of green, doesn`t know how to handle a candle, even small as it is, the poor thing. Whom does it feed on?
Maybe the trunks are now filled with red bloody cream juice of the forests. Yes, that must be it, the beavers rolled up a dam, creating a diversion for the unworldly creatures of the mist, the path finding things that are no longer.
Coming to an end, the crumb becomes unfortunate, not because it`s cold outside, but because it doesn`t matter anymore. The true meaning of it, finds it`s origins into the hard soiled path of heaven.
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