When I’m tired and want to be alone, I go to a forest no one else knows to read my books and sit in silence at one with nature and all the gods that ever existed. Perfectly still with my back resting against a tree, the animals come and go telling stories about how they see her at night among the undergrowth looking up at the moon. She’s often nude, they say, and as she slips in her fingers and curls her toes and her lips tremble in delight at the pleasures she finds within, the earth beneath her body becomes sacred and holy, and when I visit in the days following, I ask them where she was last so I can eat the soil that came into contact with her body and feel at one with all things. There are magpies that have tasted her milk, and mice that have collected strands of her hair to adorn their nests with, much the same as I have done. From her fallen eyelashes, there are flowers that grow in the delicate shade, and when I lie on my side I stroke each petal wishing so much to know the stories she keeps inside. Away from the days, there is a sense of serenity in my state of mind that never used to be. Away from others and their daily struggles with all things superfluous, I have found a path that has led me to a place where energy rules over form and dreams are not ethereal but a constant. Drifting between stations along with the foxes, badgers and deer that follow close behind, I trace her footsteps until the sun falls from the sky and she appears once more ready to guide me ever on while remaining just out of reach.