We have trees. Not real trees. The Hollywood kind with sharp hipbones and bleached teeth. In the day they are sunlit and grinning. They smell of ocean and fried food and exhaust. They lull us with happy faces.
But when night sneaks in, shadows of their sawblade fingers, tear and convulse on the horizon, slicing it into slick and clever shapes that live in our dreams.
They smell of old ink and musty books. They are the bringer of older stories than us. They are the bringer of dreams.