Long ago I planted my heart in a field, the soil of which had long been fertilized with the dung of lumbering, magic creatures. I walked away with faith that upon returning years later, I’d find a heart tree, and live long succored by its precious fruit, and be nourished by a knowledge rooted deep in musty forgotten sediments. Later, I returned, and found a horde of convivial rioting youth, narcissists the lot of them, and ignorant of the old ways. All the precious hearts had been plucked. In some past summer, they were eaten up on a whim (and what a juicy engorged picnic that was). But those heart seeds were shat out everywhere in this overgrown orchard, and if I could only convince those kids to leave then, the saplings could finally grow unmolested. Bitter, grumbling old man, I wandered about the dancers, made a hut in the corner of the field, waiting at first for them to grow weary and leave, or to expire from their indulgences. I fell asleep, woke up, became bored, closed my eyes and meditated for a thousand years or more. Awakening, I found my hut perched in the sky, surrounded by heart trees, upon whose branches dangled the youths, gleaming like gemstones, shining each from suns captured deep within their eyes and breasts, and inspiring a constant breeze that pushed and pulled them, and made them whistle like pinecones in a blizzard. The sound pierced me, tore the flesh from my bones and sent me plunging to the earth where monsters waited to devour me, and begin the entire horrid story of my birth, resurrection, and death anew.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"