it's location is full of irony.

when i was younger, it was a place i dreamed of due to it's seclusion, and the intrigue that it triggered in my imaginative mind. enticing me, inviting me.

now, when i think of that lonesome path where the trees hide the ground (so the ground remains moist all day), i only think of being vulnerably alone, middle aged men, and tripping over creeping roots. my knees sinking into muck, no longer wishing to be by myself.

my secret garden, whose gate is closed.

i never read that book.