He sits inside a tree, waiting.
Well, a part of him is waiting. There’s also the other part, the one that just sang to the Ocean after a wholehearted dance. The part that is present and alive.
But he can’t help but to wait. And he doesn’t like waiting. It makes him nervous.
If he could only merge with the tree, so still and patient. He caresses the trunk with his fingers, noticing how the old cuts…