Everything is so green there.  It creeps; it grows, fed by the rivers falling from the sky.  I shrink away and look at the trees, the earth, the air, and the emerald growth is crawling into everything.  Sometimes if I stay here for too long, the sleepiness of the person buried alive, falls upon me.  It feels that if I were to stay in this enchanted world too long, the moss would wind its way up my body, sending tiny fingers into my skin, worming along into my muscles and bones, holding me there.  The muscles would twitch and shudder, aching to move yet held in place, the greenness tickling and taunting.  But now that I am so far from it, I miss it and its cushioning and the body of the mountains.  Now I am perched on the tracks, waiting for a train, bracing myself against the howling ice as it shreds at my flesh.  The vast emptiness, studded with old buildings and abandoned train cars, is harsh to me, as it calls out, wanting to be filled.  There are no craggy mountains bathed in ice to make me cry in wonder, no ocean pounding and washing at my soul, melting me so that my heart beats in time to its rhythms.  Where are the frenzied gulls as they fight over my French fries, or the smells of pine and brine mingled so harmoniously in my nostrils?  The stoic forests, so green, bathed in the waiting mists, or the sun struggling so hard to burn through, give ease to my tortured heart.  The feeling of land on all sides of me begins to crush me, I am trapped in this sea of stone, and the realization of this makes it hard to breathe.  I want to run from this graveyard of manmade things, from these fields of relics of the civil war and this empty wasteland that was watered with blood.  I feel the stirring of the green stuff within me, raising its head to confirm its presence, and sometimes I wonder if people can see the emerald staring out from my eyes.