November
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11-1
[=9] What you see, is your own open door. Your own sanctuary. Your own lie. Or secret or what ever you want to call it.
What you see, is your last chance, your last breath, your last day to stand up and face the music. Hear the encore, and take your bow. It will be your day, it will be your last. Will your story be told on, like the trees in May and June. Or will they wither and fall....in November.... Will your picture be in the history books, but no one knows your name? Just another picture in the book, another child, or adult, or senior. Remembered, like the trees in May in June, and forgotten in November...
11-8
Your trees have withered right in front of my face. Your strudy will to hang on when the weather was tough must have disintigrated because when
you came back to me all that was left was your remains. I was trying to save you from this weather but I can't always be out there to stand with you in the weather. It's too cold outside, and I must have been too seelfish to keep you alive. I'm sorry, but theres other trees out there. Your one tree. One tree in this huge forest.
11-11
Rain clouds flutter out side and comfort each other by sharing tears. They fall on to my house with the soothing tap. The music played softly and I went to go check up on you.
You layed in you box wings spread, but you looked cold. I covered you up with a blue towel, and left you too your rest. The tears of rain clouds were like drugs, the burned and tapped in my head keeping me from knowing what happened when I was asleep. I slept, I awoke. I checked on you, I picked you up. Your wings spread, your necked snapped....I held you higher, the cloth was around you, and you looked like christ himself...
[center]
11-18
help me get it back when the installation is done k? 
