Tea of Pine.

A cyclone of pine needles danced around a protective veil in the air between her rage and foot, so thick with the residue of disgust that a spark would have set the entire forest on fire had she just blasted the pile with a swifter kick. The striking scent of decay from freshly fallen pine in the air always reminded her of the potency of provision and the art of simple survival.

Yet, she simmered her bitterness despite it all … in the tea of pine, sinking and boiling every last memory and putting her book to bed. The only thing to temper the flavor were a few cubes of sugar left to say,

“They’re watching you, ya know … “

“Why? I have nothing to offer anymore. No one reads anyway. No one. What possibly is there left to say in silence?”

“It isn’t what you’re saying now. It’s what you will. Now is merely practice for not only you, but them. A study, so to speak. And if half of you believes in what you claim to believe, don’t you think you know by now that they already know it?”

“If they already know it, why not call the curtain?”

Sipping his strange sense of zest of pine, “You’re known for your plot twists…”

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