I lay here on the floor next to the fire and feel hollow. It takes grit to make it through the day without saying fuck it. I listen to the popping and crackling of the wood and it seems so simple. I want simple, I look at the overcast sky and the wind sweeps away leaves only to bring more. The pines sway slightly and brush one another, planted so closely together light is scarce under them. Layer upon layer of needle create a hush that can be heard when the wind gusts. I want to fade with the light, a setting sun.