once my daddy took me to a clearing, a shrouded cedar and pine hideaway, overlooking the distant mountain range, sticking up like morning hair. it was sunny, flowers sprung out of the ground at our feet and fought their way through the grass. he led me to a stump, "this is where i write when i cant think." i nodded and took it all in with open eyes and a wide mouth, hanging like a trapdoor. it was beautiful; the mountains in the distance creating in my wild imagination castles like the ones where giants lived, in the stories that spilled from his lips. he opened his arms wide like wings at the highest part of the arching hill, he closed his eyes and the breeze tousled his wheat hair, flowers softly caressing his ankles. the scruff above his lip and laying on his chin shined gold in the drifting daylight sun. he took a deep breath a humongous breath; deeper than any i could ever take. "this is where i go when i cant breathe." you could hear the echoes of swift trains, screaming past in the valley from Truckee, carrying chills along with it every time i heard them. i never liked that sound. it was a cacophony of shrieks. he held my hand with fingers ten thousand oceans larger than mine, and took me into the thickest, deepest part of the woods where it was dark and the smell of pine viciously attacked your nostrils, like a rabid dog. he let go of my hand, i let it fall dejectedly to my side. he slumped down into a pile near the roots of the tree, a different man: tired and trying. he sighed. *"this is where i go to sleep, when your mother has had enough of me."