Under Constructsion

There is a place in this land where the forest turns to ruins and the trees of wood become trees of stone. In this place moss and ferns and vines prosper. They form roofs for sunlight to shine through and sails for the wind to blow on. For this wind is always present always gentle and always pulling you farther through the greenery. The source of this wind is where the ruins meet the rocks meet the sea. It is a large stone egg and inside is a man. He is an old man and there is a hole in the egg for his face. The man sits there and never moves. Concentrating on the last inhale he will ever take in his life. He gets sustenance from the flys and berrys and leafs he breaths in and water from the rain and snow he breaths in. He is insulated from the cold by his long long beard. If you follow the right road You can visit him, if you like and I’m sure he would like it as well. He does not speak (it would interrupt his breath) but he will write or sign or wink in Morse code. The mail man comes every 2 years to take or deliver postcards. There is a place where the forests meet the ruins that meet the rocks that meet the sea. And it always welcomes a visitor.