It is, seemingly, forever beyond.

*I'm in a quaint sort of mood right now. If this doesn't make sense, it probably doesn't*

It's not a secret if it's not in the dark. Trees carry secrets, you know. If you looked high enough up into the darkest of their leaves, green as the sky where the stars hang like fruits, you would know that trees carry secrets. Because trees are ancient. Their barks, like long silvery beards, are full of stories of all things passed. Why do you think we eat their fruits? Unknowingly, we hope that one of their seeds will sing something to us, white with heat, just before we swallow it into the folds of our stomachs.

But then again, there are those who care not for secrets. Who thaw, axe to wood, having known the pain that bones may feel. Who grit their teeth to the growl of engines and of their own insatiable hungers and silence the speechless for you and I who speak of romance and secrets. It's not a secret if it's not in the dark. Once it is out into the open, you cannot ignore it. The trees know it and so do we, there is in this world two kinds of people - the ones who do what they can to live well and the ones who do what they can so others can live well.

They bend down and look at us sadly, they do. Mumble when the wind permits them, in a kind of song that is deep with sighs. Because they know that they are people too. We are bound by the same fate. And the neither of us haven't any way to thank the Sun.