We know you from a place you are going and have been there ourselves in lives too numerous to mention. This place has a nest of trees–eastern white pines–with long, soft needles and smooth grey bark. This place will be the center of your heart. Under the trees are beds of brown feathers/needles/ branches. We like the fact that you will spend the night here by happenstance, because of a lover’s quarrel, a broken automobile, a lost wallet, a bump on the head, too much to drink, a vision quest, or because you think your dreams are an adventure. There is no need to tell you that we walked here hand in hand, fought toe to toe, and died in other cities, other rooms, where the light was artificial. Such sorrow should be forgotten, laid to rest. Moonlight becomes the spot you wipe away. When time slides open, we will be there with you, bringing our stories for you to sleep upon. Late at night, open your eyes. We’ll pour into your rapidly beating heart through crickets cheetering and the snap of a dry twig. Even though you do not know us, we will meet you and come for you, and you shall see us when your thin, pale hands cover your aching eyes to block out the sharp moonlight, our faces, us.