in the silent, unuttered depths of forests, where light filters through in beams that seem almost deliberate, there's a feeling that's hard to describe, as if the trees themselves hold back stories they wish to tell but have chosen to cut out from the cacophony of the outside world. to me, it appears as a predisjunctive pause, a waiting for the right moment to commence again with the telling of tales as old as time. one might think of these places as sites for evaluations of what it means to be truly at peace, undisturbed by the clamor and clutter of civilization.