“But then, after about fifteen minutes the train passed a little grey wooden control booth. The door flung right open and I thought, ‘no, no that, that is my heart.’ The train continued along through February fields and I looked for more things to call my heart. A rusty bridge, shot-down evergreen, a discarded can of Mountain Dew. It turned out my heart was everywhere that winter month.”
— Jonathan Goldstein, This American Life #239: Lost In America

This tree is my heart. The branches pokes everything but not happily. They’re slouched, heavy from the weather but, I suspect, defiantly refuses to break. I assume. It can also be my lost scarf that’s out there, freezing to death in its lonesome.