A harsh wind blows across a grassy plain battering the barren limbs of the Hanging Tree. A frayed piece of hemp stained with the blood of countless malcontents slowly twists in the breeze. A crime uncommitted lays at the tip of my fingers poised on the tip of my tongue. The crime of telling you how I feel and risking your wrath risking your joy. Finger tensed on the trigger needing only a slight squeeze. It is not the noose I fear for I'm already twisting in the wind.