Something that has been on my mind lately is an unfortunate tree with those few block letters and a crooked symbol scratched into it. It's not the first of its kind, but it is the first from my doing. It bled for that "Love," and it will forever be hollowed because of it. Even as it—we—grow that moment will always be a part of our lives, a part of us, forever. The limited, but oh so significant, differences are: I did not bleed for that love, that love will never hollow me once more, and I have carried that love with me for a much shorter time.