A precision cut in a well lit space, sometimes with extreme high stakes. Once the damage has been done, the healing process has begun.

I once stood tall beneath the sun, Now rivers carry where I run. The waves have carved me, smooth and pale, I wander freely without a sail. No roots remain to hold me down, I wash ashore from town to town.

We always start our journey paired, that’s simply how we’re made, yet somewhere in the laundry’s depths, one somehow goes astray.

I sit on a deer’s head, I’m not going to fall, I look like a tree, but I’m not one at all. I’m bumpy and branched, I grow every year What am I, riding on top of a deer?

An onion is basically one; so is the glass pear that lights up bright ideas.