The smell of wisteria is in the air.
I look upon my hands they remind me of old and withered tree out in the middle of some isolated field, long forgotten. Time has abandoned; what the fast pace of the world has already. No time for the art no time for age of mystery and superstition. Each wrinkle and scar has a tale, may it be of happiness or sorrow, its tale is its own. I lie under this great oak out in the middle of the field pondering what was this tree's first few days like? Were there children who climbed you, did lovers make love under your branches? I look upon my own hands and recall the memories of my childhood. How similar. Pain, sorrow, joyfulness and happiness. Will someone remember my tale when I old and withered like this great tree?
