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Some of the consolations she’d found were difficult to explain to others, such as the shape of trees and their constant vigilance over night, day, traffic, holidays, over any and all things that came their way while they stood rooted sentinal with the kind of loyalty so extremely rare in people; specifically, she thought, that waitress she had come to know who had the biggest chest she’d ever experienced, and while this was not necessarily a good thing and she felt sorry for the way the waitress had become not so much a person with wants, needs, desires, hopes and fears, but rather a walking rack for Large Breasts in the abstract sense, that waitress who was the most loyal friend she’d ever had up to and including the day she’d finally pulled the automatic weapon from its spot nestled between the hills of her prodigious pearl-white breatal zone, when she snapped and finally, it seemed, the years of sheet-folding and drink-hauling, all the leering glances and insensitive comments, all of it conspired in a whirling fog until her anger pierced redhot and fullblown over the top; despite all that loyalty, thought the treelover, that waitress was not as steadfast as even the smallest whippet of a tree, whose commitment to the seasons and attempts at movement and life had to be among the most incredible phenomena on this earth, though among the most common.