Right where it belongs the half-fucked pop schizophrenic forestman plucks a book off the branches of a library-tree and plops it down on the mud.

In the clearing where all the words stop hooting a line forms to spit into the face of God.

See the safety of the life that he has escaped, this world of make-believe revolution and revolt and revolting revolution, resolution, right where he is.

He is the last piece of Christmas dinner grown into a full-sized man. He is a book with the cover torn off.

For lunch he scurries to find berries from the undergrowth. Beaten berries, bush berries, berries which look like plucked off nipples, berries covered in spots and blemishes.

You are what you eat, so he only eats everything.

There is a tree in which he hides the unedibles he finds – bits of pocket lint, shiny brass buttons from a long hung general, the pressed suit of a corporate-type found beside a bottomless cliff. Things like that – he chooses to believe that they came to the forest to find somewhere else to go. Somewhere right, like hitch-hiking down a highway into the cold beating heart of America, into the pit-stop pituararies of petrol pumps and half-alive diners waiting to serve yesterday’s scrambled eggs and newspeak platter.

The forest is also a jungle which is miles away from civilisation, which is another jungle altogether.

At night he lies on the canopy of trees, suspending his weight delicately between the gaps and the holes, pointing out the stars like pin-pricks left from God’s acupuncturing the Earth, look at all the holes he’s left us to breathe, all these holes he can watch us from.

He waves back into the night sky to say hi, God, I see you, I see you, I see you.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way.