When You Know You Can't Have What You Want
The Mysterious Old Man sat on a rock in the woods and pulled with irritation at the vines growing up his legs. Why, he murmured to himself, why are we so persistent, my little plants? When the old man dies, you may feast on him, but now, I ask you where's the profit? Alas, I fear I wish--but where's the profit in wishing? You don't listen.
So the little vines disregarded him and continued to grow, curling around his calves, pressing his trousers tight, spreading out little green leaves.
The ties that bind, indeed, murmured the Mysterious Old Man.
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