My toil for triumph,
A hymn to forgotten gods.
Its primeval roots
Stretch deep into timeless earth
As its boughs scrape the sky’s dome.

“Theo Dyssean” is an internationally unknown expert in asking questions, finding answers, not getting caught, and not getting killed [and/or eaten by bears]. He enjoys moonlit runs down dark alleyways, and romantic evenings working through an interpreter who speaks less of the target language than he does. His hobbies include being in the wrong place at the wrong time, knowing where the exits are, being the fastest runner in the room, borrowing bikes, and sleeping in HVAC ducts. His religious and political views tend to orbit dominantly around Bobby Finstock’s Three Rules.

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Sometimes I think trees have old souls that have learned to not worry about meeting anyone else’s expectations but their own. If someone benefits from their strength, shade, blossoms, fruit, fall leaves, nooks and crannies for climbing, reading, swinging under a hammock, that’s just a bonus. They keep doing their thing, whether anyone is watching and benefitting or not.

Tol? You’re usually pretty purposeful about those titles… I’ve been debating if it’s supposed to be Toil. Middle Dutch tol means twig. Old Norse tol means patience. 🤔


I just love you, Sir!


And when you breath your last old tree
Having completed your work with great hardship.
If my toiling is not yet done… perhaps…
Perhaps I shall work you into something.
Something worthy of your epic journey

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