Postulating

I got lost in the woods of Vancouver, BC. I soon ran out of food and water. I sat under a pine tree feeling badly about myself.

The pine tree said, “Why the weepy face?”

I said, “I’m lost and it looks like the end.”

The pine tree said, “But you’re still alive.”

I said, “I know, but all signs point to merde.”

The pine tree said, “What signs are you speaking of?”

I said, “I mean figuratively.”

The pine tree said, “Oh, you’re a writer!”

I said, “Yes!”

The pine tree said, “Writers have a poetically commanding way of interpreting things with imprecision.”