And the plot gets deeper still, forking paths entwining and withering with each step.
Atop the hill is a windmill, spinning aimlessly, forgotten in a passed-by world.
Inside the forest takes place an ancient thrill, the trees lay silent, the bards keep chanting.
Inside the room they fill, candles blossom sparks of passion, flames of attraction.
I still haven't moved my heel, the roads bend and twist and turn, I don't want to pick...