sometimes i dream about escaping into the forest and building a little wooden home in the branches of a towering tree. i would spend my days wandering between the trees: bending to pick wildflowers and berries, collecting feathers and smooth stones, standing perfectly still and silently beckoning the forest creatures, stroking the spotted backs of spindly fawns, balancing songbirds in the palm of my hand. as the sun bled across the sky i would dance to the crackle of old records. at night i would curl beneath thick blankets and crack the spines of weathered books, allowing myself to get lost in their stories. i would fall asleep to whispers of wind rustling through the trees and wolves calling to the midnight sky.
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