I find myself. Or maybe that’s too presumptuous. I’ve lost myself in my mind. I forgot. **** memory. What was the name of that cute guy who never loved me? There were many, but in this case his name was Richard. I miss the butterflies, but I know that now is winter and winter is cold. I don’t like the cold. When the butterflies return, breathing will be harder.  It’s hard to breathe in spring, one of the many things out to get me. Like opossums. If there was a Hell through my creation, there would be high pitch noises and opossums in a perpetual spring. There would be all my bad memories and experiences, and soul food. I like trees. I imagine they more about time than me. I married a tree once. He cheated on me and I divorced him. Once a tree was clocked by police and was going 15 mph. The police should have given the tree a ticket for being so ninja like. I can recall a time where the trees would attack me in darkness. I use to try to find happiness, like an endless quest for a mystical object. I think I found it now, so I stopped looking.