Words, words they seem so meaningless now. After a lifetime of gazing into the mist on the lake, and observing the silhouetted trees, everything seems pointless. All of the nouns, and sounds, and stories don't seem to matter. Silence overtakes my voice and I can no longer talk, nor do I ever try. Talking to oneself is insanity in the making. It has been now made. Talking to me is no longer necessary.

I can feel the sand-dirt crumble underneath my bare feet. Each individual piece like another cut into the almost fatal wound. My ears hear the stillness of the waters, of the creatures that don't exist in the forest all around me. My eyes can see the rocks talking to one another in their rock language. Dryness overtakes my tongue, for I have not tasted wet in a long time. The naked flesh on my hands is cold and shaking, they have always trembled. I feel they always will.

Somehow I lead myself back to my crude shelter. Made of mere sticks and stones, nothing more than a cold prison. No one is there to greet me, no one ever is. I count the number of rocks in my hand-dug hole in the dirt floor. It counts to be 117. I add another to make 118. That makes today my tenth year in this place. I am now sixteen. Happy day of birth.