One tree waves at the forest floor without the wind. The pine trees are wax statues of each other. Forethought heaps up inside me until a leather strap sets it free. I am an ancient rulebook when it comes to prescribing the cure for loneliness. Loneliness grows because we feed it scraps of desertion. We feed it delay. We feed it demonstration. I have taken to calling myself lazy, even when a rush from one side to the other has swallowed me. The playground is a box. A forgotten box. I make the sandbox a home. One day I uncover a small green jeep buried so far down that the boy who put it there must be dead. There is ego even in this. Even in my desire to watch the dead boy’s jeep make ropes and buoys in the sand.