I was sitting on the side of the hill in back of the Gallia County Farmhouse, behind where the old milk house used to be and where the large oak trees stand. On my lap I was holding a large piece of paper, much like drawing paper, on which I had begun writing a story in large, fancy letters. The story dealt with a war in which China was opposed to a united Europe and the United States. Holland had broken ranks with the other European countries by declaring that it would no longer search Chinese ships for drugs (drugs, apparently, were the focus of the war). The concern was now being raised that China would be able to flood Europe with drugs through Holland.

I thought such concerns were ludicrous. I lamented that so many people's lives had been destroyed because they had been put in prison for drug offenses. I knew it was unjust for such people to be incarcerated. The tragedy of their fate contrasted heavily with my own freedom. I felt as if I had only just begun to feel free to write my story, and that the writing made me feel wonderful. Yet I had once been in jail, and I could commiserate with all the people whose live were now being wasted in jails. The thought that my own life could somehow be ruined by such injustice bothered me deeply.

Three birds hovering nearby in the air. They were medium-sized and looked as if they were black with blue markings. Two were touching their beaks together, while the third bird hovered in front of them. They came closer and closer, and I could see their black pupils surrounded by yellow retinas. I stared at them, thinking how normally I wasn't able to get this close to birds. But out here, I was closer to the wilderness and nature. I hoped nothing would change in my life to prevent me from continuing as I was doing.