(maybe more)

What if one measly tree falls in the forest? Or if it wasn’t a tree at all, but a bush? Or if that damn tree spent the greater portion of it’s life pretending to be a bush and one day, out of the blue, it decided to be a tree again, what then? How could a wolf know where to lift his leg in all that foliage?

And where does sound go after it wakes me up at night? And the trucks, what do they keep carrying back and forth? And can something as delicate-sounding as I love you really be shouted over so many engines? And when do we simply mouth the words? And how long could something like that last?

Can snow come to signify anything other than what you look like asleep? And why do day-people and night-people attempt to love each other, yawning all the time, in this population explosion?

Why do you smoke? And why were you so impressed that I asked, given the many different ways we make ourselves dead?

And isn’t “what’s the point?” a question that negates itself? And doesn’t that negation give way to a new kind of optimism? One inherent in the act of asking? And why talk ontology on such a runny night, the windows shimmering in the lamplight?

And why not sit right here, right next to me? Maybe we'll make our way back after all.