He layed unconcious at the foot of a tree, his tatered flannel shirt stained with the wine he had wolfed down the night before. In his hand rested a book, a spiraled book containing all the secrets of this world and many others. He tried to rise, only to see the trees turned in circles around him. This poet got up to his feet, only to fall once more. His stomach turned as he raised again and shambled out of the trees, dropping his note book as he fell to his knees once again.