An insomniacs forest is treeless. A lovers field is flowerless. A writers novel is blank. A singers guitar has not a single string. A photographer with no photogenic friends. A song with no tune and a word with no sound. We stay quiet. Waiting for the day when these things will change. We give the singer strings but it will not free him. We plant a tree on a forest with nothing, but still sleep doesn’t come. We smile at the camera but the tears are still developed. We sing songs and speak words with the utmost clarity but it does not help. We give the lover the roses we so carefully clung to but she does not love. We give the writer words but she can’t control them. But is the world better now? Is it better to give the people what they want and let them do what they wish with it, or is it better to keep these for the fear of pain? For in this world, noise and color and song is all regarded as pain. But when a simple song is blown through the wind, only to catch itself on the branch of the tree, where the insomnia and the writer sit, it will lull the sleepless to sleep and inspire the inspirable. The writer will write words, and the photographer will hear the insomniacs snores and go to snap a photo of the most beautiful girl he has ever seen, sleeping beneath a tree. So do we hide in fear or burst open and take what comes our way?