I stand on the lonely plain and pass your messages along. I used to be a tree, standing tall in the forest, and when the men came with their axes and saws I thought, well, this is it. But here I am still. Instead of branches, I have cross bars that support the wires. East and west they stretch, as far as the eye can see.

And they hum with self-importance. They think nothing of me, they just vibrate with excitement. And I, who stand here still, have learned to read their every quiver. Hah. It's not about them at all. The messages come from someone else, and go to someone else. Some one who thinks as little about the wires as they think about me.

Mostly it's about these big metal things that rumble past several times a day. But sometimes something else comes through. About love, and death, and war, and money. I don't know what any of that is. All I know is the vibrations — from the ground, from the wires — vibrations.