• The air is cold in the winter wasteland, the layers of snow immaculate and untouched.

    Standing alone within the soft flurries that patch themselves to my coat, the wind whispering into my ear like the words of a ghost that send shivers down one's spine.

    Before me stands the great figure of a man, a collossus, his naked skin cold and dry, cracking in the winter air. Outstretched from his body are a thousand arms, reaching forth in all directions like the roots of life itself, twisted and contorting as the mighty winds blow, his bones creaking as he sways. One great, gaping eye stares lifelessly at me.

    Left, and right, his movements conveying death.

    I beheld in my eyes the death of this old man, surely wise in his years. His bones finally broke, cracking and crashing as he toppled over, his arms falling to pieces on the snowy ground. His roots were pulled from the earth itself as he finally laid still, resting upon the disturbed blanket of snow.

    I stared at that tree for a long time, somehow finding it ironic that I had nothing better to do than watch old men die.