Wankered out of his head he played his tambourine beneath the chestnut tree. Living life to its fullest, whatever that really means. Under the chestnut tree where the breeze blew perfectly. Under the chestnut tree where I choose not to be. He played his tambourine for men and women alike. Singing of his pain which caused them all delight. Seeing through the lies, the lust, the vacant cries I witnessed such a man that made me need to fight. Existence, knowledge, truth I desired them more and more. The powerful icey eyes had caused inside of me a horrendous storm. I wrote to him, I yelled, I called from afar "Come out from the chestnut tree, I need some help with this war". But still, he plays his tambourine under that stubborn tree. I listen from afar. Ill wait patiently.

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