If you could choose, would you choose at all? What happened to the times when trees whispered our names? it’s been quiet lately, I see rocks but none seem to tell those tales. From the endless orchards to aimless mountains, the seasons have searched for you; like a child that hasn’t come home from the game. Blessed be the lips that pray, cursed be the hands that prey; wicked are those that may lead you away, astray. Is it home? Or is it the world? What follows the fall? If you could, would you choose at all?