It used to be — in my mother's time — that the forest surrounded the towns and villages of men, and that the world was mostly ours even by day; now, we huddle in ever-shrinking woods, choked from all sides by concrete and asphalt and glass, and often must hide even at night. They blunder in to piss and hunt and hide their bags of pornographic magazines and their murdered bodies.
I wish there was something to be done about it all.
My mother laughs at me. This will pass; they can't last much longer at this rate. Soon now, dear, soon.