From the trees hang a string of memories. It is a light metal chain that floats in the breeze, contradicts itself melodically. The sky between the branches is hazy orange through the lenses of recollection, the wind blowing faintly, hollowly, the way the wind blows when no one is there and ghost essences are left behind to rot. A faint purple creeps in through the edges, speaks of something that could have been but never was, hints the shadows that line a face; that young face turned old with lines and beautiful wrinkles.

All the trees are different sizes and shapes; some are slender and thin and elegant as they stand alone; others are sturdy, bushy clumps with thick branches stemming off of rough, barky trunks. The forest is an unsolvable puzzle; not because the pieces are missing, but because no one can understand just how the pieces fit so well, so harmoniously that it must certainly be impossible. And yet it is, proves the whole world wrong with a single glance of wisdom.

A creek runs through the middle of the forest, a small oneā€”the gurgling heart. A child could wade through it and the water would only come pleasantly up to the calves, cold sweet water with smooth stones on the bottom to caress the feet that cross it. It is the kind of water that is never muddy, and the leaves that float down its soft currents are always beautiful bright red, never the crumpled brown usually expected. The grass that tufts off the gentle slopes of the banks are clumped in all the right places, provide the most comfortable pillows for star-gazing at night, for cloud-gazing in broad daylight.

The sun that streams through the trees is a most peculiar light; it is lazy and swimming, turns the grass rich gold with inexplicable glowing, as if the grass is dewed with eternal fireflies, silent guardians that watch over the string of memories, those precious, unnamed memories. The shadows that flit about the clearing are of the most peculiar type, too; they are a soft, forgiving kind of shadow that is light and pale like the blush on the cheeks of a clumsy, charming bridesmaid as she trips on the hem of her dress. The wind blows through the trees again and the string of memories tinkles faintly like a silver bell, stirs sleepily like a kitten from a midday nap.

It is peaceful here, where the memories lay dead and dying.

More spammage! :D