The beast inside us all are growing. We trudge through the tall landscapes looking for lasting immortality. We judge others for their constellations, and disagree on the faulty moon craters. We get moved by the feeling of a hand over our broken concrete roads. We all concentrate on fallen pinecones and descending snowflakes that remain at the tip of our prestine toes. The only thing not trembling or wandering is our evergreen bones. Under all of the beasts fur coats are interchangeable skeletons who feast on the likeliness of lonelyhood. If we all stripped down to our sketchy framework, could we all consolidate, to watch the leaves of the old oak tree disintegrate.