I used to talk all the time. Words flowed out of me like rivers and extended their arms to faraway lands where they swished and swashed all the liked. But now, my land is bare and my heart is a stone made of the strongest metals. My tears used to flow as continuously as my words but now, they too, are dried up. It seems that I have become an empty well, wood still stable and strong. My bones keep me together but inside, I am gone. Puppet’s legs creaking down the hall, that’s all I have become. I used to stop every once in a while and doubt. I used to think and doubt all day long as the sun set and the world seemed to end. I died every night and was reborn every morning, taking time in between to live. Now, my life is one monotonous branch, blown by the tranquil wind and spared all the trouble of bearing fruit, for I am a widow branch, I am a lonely branch. I have no desires, I have no longings. I simply sway and sway and never touch the tree that I hang from.