You reach out to grab something, but you stumble upon your own hand. Your eyes meet the disgusting pile of burned down trees that stick out like a wound from your horrendous flesh. You thought you could forget didn't you? How many times has this happened today? Ten? Fifty? One hundred? One thousand? You are pathetic. Crying over something so small yet so impossible to change. This is your body, get used to it. The bugs won't be leaving any time soon.