hew raze from the weather_beaten brawn of a birch tree they've sculpted a map of the world. there, beyond any recognizable country, past the piecemeal peninsulas, where nothing is named, sits a shape to mark this tract of land they're living on. they hunt by day, killing what crept under cloud cover long before they arrived. by night they trade their children for supplies from passing_ships. a man with no ties to what he left behind admits this has come to feel like home to him in a way no box of brick and breeze blocks ever did. when his face breaks and a river runs through him, he weeps alone. 251129 what's it to you? who go blather from