5.1 on a Saturday afternoon.

Change became necessary.
Not for career, or love, or the sake of sanity.
More to soothe a fear of stagnation.
Of the ever encroaching and increasingly predictable future.
Of the exhaustion of all patience.
Of spending the dwindling time spent talking to ghosts,
or in the futile struggle for what passes for normality.

Still, it seems an ill thing to trade evergreen hills and soaring granite for blowing sand and salt air.

The bashful lodge pole opens herself to the gentle kiss of fire.

The drunken redwood waltzes on the edge of the world.