In a forest where all the trees wilt inwards and the rain is made of rock, those attempting to pass by find a tone to follow. A loud whisper navigating around the demented bundles of branches, though this is not a whisper that is always without a fray… Sometimes you can hear its paws in the mud. Sometimes you can hear the breaking of the branches crackle, like they didn’t have blood, no sap, no green plant blood, just veines looking for something to be let through while the wood lays in its teeth. And it’s during then, during the splinter, during the reception of a new thing to breath, that the pass-bys find the tone. Like a needle in a haystack, or even a clover in the arctic, some hear this lifted compass, a continuous whisper that has no north, no south, no hospital, no police station, no ramp, no stars, but a constantly evolving arrow that points to the same direction but never the same place. Listen. Over there, I hear something bark, I hear a beast whisper in pain, I hear a..