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June 23, 2009
It all looked so foreign, so sparse, more like a moonscape than the heavily-foliaged National Park he had grown to adore with a love that was brimming with an unexplainable passion. The trees were anorexic fingers, no flesh, just bone. Where once you could see perhaps twenty metres through the dense growth, now you could view the entire surrounding countryside through the matchstick landscape. He couldn’t understand how some trees had untouched leaves atop black bases that were once proud trunks. He felt like he was in a graveyard. He was mourning. He wished a violent ending on the arsonist.