Webster’s defines “Suffering” as:

Let me tell you the peace. Children rolled in thin sheets this season nominate flea-foam from kitten mouths for currency. I’ll trade that bound for fuel to smoke this. Take your mp3-player for a walk; under your skin, within it, time mints a lichen of cholera in technological colors, to trade for kinetics. Everyone I’m related to carries food for hours. When we get to the table, the stylesheet makes it very clear we should wait. To belong to a class, one must display similar properties, or declare oneself as an extension. You know, the feeling you get when you’re surrounded by familiar forms, flowing through familiar tasks. This commonality, sometimes expressed by reciprocal language, sets your partner at ease; half the time, all we really want is a mirror. But then sometimes, when I’m walking along minding my own business, I wish the pavement would collapse, and my next step be falling.

But mostly, branches moaning with leaves.