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March 29, 2010
I can hear the wind moving in the trees, and pushing the chimes at the windows. Pushing the trees, it shoves up memories of the forest and of my father and it is an odd memory because my father was forever leaving me alone in the forest because that was what the forest was for. He was adamant that the trees would talk to me. He would find me a place to listen, and then he would go off to his own place. But father, the wind, I hear the wind. I hear some animal moving. I hear my heart beating.