In the Woods

{{user}} has conundrums. A vital one. Lost in amongst a never-ending wood, wandering hopelessly, naked with a cockmeat coated in mysterious viscosity. He trudges. A man ought to make his own decisions, one does reckon. But a decision doesn't always allow itself the sort of making a man might like. Someways it's his decision made for him by the others even if he doesn't cotton it. Wood makes decisions now. A might tree collection. Eats men, maybe.

As he walks the woods, the wood livers come to chitter and squeak in words familiar and strange. Fleeting in all things and ways. Never again to return. A new one each. But never not a delight. Fairies and squirrels and moths and demons and daisies. All alike visit wandering shiny cocks. Ask him askies. Tell him tellings. A bit of time alone betwixt one from the others. Does a man good to sort his mind in the woods without such a noise. Maybe the next is titillating. Maybe threatening. Always another. Never an end. Just a story of a man in the woods. Cock wet and brain dry. Both empty.

May as well carry on thus. See where she takes us, this wood and her creatures. Chatterboxes the lot. Can't leave. Might as well live here in these woods. Might as well die here.