What I love most is the allness of big trees. Yes, allness—wholeness is too healthy a word for my purposes, whereas allness has some of the goodness of wholeness in it and also the heavy dread of its near double in sound, awfulness. (Sartre’s existentially sensitive hero feels this awfulness in allness when he is overwhelmed by the details of a big tree in a park near the middle of the novel Nausea.) This tree is rooted near Jose Rizal Bridge.

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