The forest floor has blistered our feet.

It feels as if we have seen each other lifetimes ago.

We exchange a few awkward words.

You scribble on the bark of every tree.

Another language drifts in the verdant air but neither of us can speak it.

Mostly we keep to ourselves.

The patchwork of leaves we carry from memory breaks from time to time.

In total darkness at night shadows leave us alone.

A rusted abandoned truck lies overturned on its back, wheels in the air — one’s off — like the carcass of some animal.

Very slowly, we start to say things in hieroglyphics.