Franco would sleep at the other end of the tube, but it was still a ways away. He wished in a way that he could follow it, but not even a bird could do that, a squirrel maybe. Franco sometimes took shortcuts and always regretted it. How frightened he became when he left the trail, forced to reconcile himself to the oblique hillsides that made him fall to all fours, straining muscles he did not even know he had, as he struggled against gravity, wet leaves and confusion. Up and down were no longer clear on these hillsides, which seemed to slope both up and down at the same time, sending one foot in one direction and the other foot in another direction, straining knees and groin in a way that instilled an existential panic that not even thirst or hunger ever provoked. Is this what it was like to be an animal? Living a roadless life like this? The terror of this rumination, cows again, followed by the realization that his two feet were on level ground, filled Franco with elation. Safe on the ground, sunlight, food and water inside him where they should be, and Franco was human again. But he thought of his tree and the feeling he had when he laid his hand on its bark, and he thought about it, and thought about it, and thought about it.
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