T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova

secretly slide your fingers between the many branches of the weeping willow hush, and listen to her lament. she cries the tears of busy world that do not know how to hear; they have forgotten more important things have replaced the quiet world of the willow. do you like my car, did you succeed yet again in claiming an expense you did not incur? the simplicity of the swaying branches of the weeping willow sharply contrasted with the backdrop of the inhuman concrete city in which we live or is it exist? moving to the face on a watch rather than feeling the time of the sun. constantly hurried by that watch face but in a hurry to do what? or even to be on time or late with yet another good lie which some think will be another adequate excuse. do you think some do not see the lies of men in a hurry to go no where with no one save for the one's that blindly ask a/s/l for the thousandth time. so lonely they would not know a world without their solitude. why? because what then will they use for attention. we have come so far from the morals our ancestors learned from the sun, the weeping willow, the wind to become a people so absorbed with self, gossiping, taking advantage of anyone we can that man has become as unfeeling and deaf as concrete. `T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova