The paintings, writings, readings all go to one place- trying to be somewhere else, in someone else's story, shoe or garden. They say, we ain't trees we don't have roots to bind us, but they are wrong, aren't they? We call our roots, responsibilities. Yet, we try to spread our branches as far as possible. And yet again, there are only 'seventy springs' as Houseman had counted. The leaves on our branches will meet the November soon, and our springs will end without letting us see what the ninety-nine percent of the world had for us. "... Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more..." - Loveliest of Trees, The Cherry Now by A. E. Housman ___________ Day 15 of Worldrobe
