dýcha? dýcha? dýcha?
we sometimes seek for place hidden in our memories, it seems so great, so full: perfect as only misty faraway place which we just thought up can be. those moments/places we lived through; they changed us, built us: became undistinguishable parts of us. that is the reason why we can not find them inside separately, that is the reason why we picture those now imaginary patterns as sharp as it gets, making them something else as they were, because now we are different persons.
break that picture on infinity pieces, step on them and walk walk walk, let your feet bleed pity/destructive_nostalgia out from yourself.
when were you last time in forrest?