The trees have something to do and it has something to do with trees

Once upon a time there were some trees. Oh, In case you are not familiar with trees, trees are made out of wood. To tell the truth trees are not made from wood, not in the way that a wooden house is made from wood by little men. Wooden houses get made of wood, while trees are just wood. To refer to them as being made requires one more storyteller than needed for this tale. Trees, if you insist on clarification, are just woody. Trees are woody, and when they hang out together they are woodsy.

Once upon a time there were some trees, and since they were trees they decided to live in the woods, and therefor they were woodsy. So once upon a time the trees lived in the woods, and naturally this was pretty much all they ever did, and so it was that the trees lived happily ever after. They lived happily, in ignorance of the fact that this story has nothing to do with them because this story is actually about a tiny cabin in the woods.

So gather around young trees, and I will tell you a story about a tiny cabin in the woods. In this cabin lived a little man, littler even than the cabin, for how else could he have fit inside the cabin? This little man, who was perfectly normal in size when seen from the perspective of someone who wasn't as tall as a tree, liked to tell stories which was unfortunate, because he lived alone in the forest, so there were no ears available in which he could plant his stories. All day he would sit on his porch and think up splendid tales, but because there was no one to tell them to the stories would gradually unthink themselves, and this left the little man feeling sad. One day, however, when the man heard the wind whispering through the leaves, he thought he understood, so he decided to tell his stories to the trees. He immediately went inside, put on clean socks and parted his hair, then came back out and stood on his porch. "Trees!" He called out to the forest. "Trees! I will tell you a story!" He paused here because he wasn't sure what type of story trees would like. He needed something they could relate to, something the wooden mind of a tree could understand. Then one came to him, so he stepped to the edge of the porch and began:

Gather around young trees, and I will tell you a story about a tiny cabin in the woods. In this cabin lived a little man, littler even than the cabin, for how else could he have fit inside the cabin? This little man, who was perfectly normal in size when seen from the perspective of someone who wasn't as tall as a tree, liked to tell stories which was unfortunate, because he lived alone in the forest, so there were no ears available in which he could plant his stories. All day he would sit on his porch and think up splendid tales, but because there was no one to tell them to the stories would gradually unthink themselves, and this left the little man feeling sad. One day, however, when the man heard the wind whispering through the leaves, he thought he understood, so he decided to tell his stories to the trees. He immediately went inside, put on clean socks and parted his hair, then came back out and stood on his porch. "Trees!" He called out to the forest. "Trees! I will tell you a story!" He paused here because he wasn't sure what type of story trees would like. He needed something they could relate to, something the wooden mind of a tree could understand. Then one came to him, so he stepped to the edge of the porch and began:

Gather around young trees, and I will tell you a story about a tiny cabin in the woods. In this cabin lived a little man, littler even than the cabin, for how else could he have fit inside the cabin? This little man, who was perfectly normal in size when seen from the perspective of someone who wasn't as tall as a tree, liked to tell stories which was unfortunate, because he lived alone in the forest, so there were no ears available in which he could plant his stories. All day he would sit on his porch and think up splendid tales, but because there was no one to tell them to the stories would gradually unthink themselves, and this left the little man feeling sad. One day, however, when the man heard the wind whispering through the leaves, he thought he understood, so he decided to tell his stories to the trees. He immediately went inside, put on clean socks and parted his hair, then came back out and stood on his porch. "Trees!" He called out to the forest. "Trees! I will tell you a story!" He paused here because he wasn't sure what type of story trees would like. He needed something they could relate to, something the wooden mind of a tree could understand. Then one came to him, so he stepped to the edge of the porch and began:

Gather around young trees, and I will tell you a story about a tiny cabin in the woods.

Just then one of the trees rose a branch. "Excuse me, I think we have heard this story before."

"That's impossible. I have never told it before."

"Well, sure, but it wasn't you who told it, but rather the little man who told the story about the story about the story about you. We heard it from him."

"How can it be possible for you to have heard it, when you are a character in the story in the story in the story you are talking about."

"I don't understand why not."

"You are confined to something that is greater than what is greater than something that is greater than you."

"For such a little organism you are largely confusing. Do you really expect trees to understand this story? Have you seen how small a tree's brain is?"

"No. I have never seen a tree brain. Where is a tree's brain?"

The tree had to stop and think about this. Well now, where is my brain? The tree wondered. Maybe I don't even have a brain. If I don't have a brain, then I don't need to think about where it is. Logically speaking, if I don't have a brain then I can't think about where it is, on account of the fact can't think without a brain. So why am I wasting time with these philosophical questions? For a mindless tree I spend far too much time on introspection.

Meanwhile, the little man was getting annoyed because he believed he was the central figure in his story, and felt the introspection of other characters was inappropriate and boring. "Excuse me," he said to the tree, "what are you thinking about?"

"Trees." The tree answered. "That's all a tree can think about is trees. We are no different than little men, who can think about nothing other than themselves."

"That's not true," the man said. "As a human I can think about many different things. For example right now I am thinking about trees."

"And what thought are you having about trees?"

"That they are a distraction from the principle narrative of my story."

"And what is your principle narrative?"

"The principle narrative is about the narrator, which in this instance is me."

"Naturally. Then please proceed with your story."

"Once upon a time there was a little man - that would be me, the character - who lived in a little cabin in the woods - that would be you, the setting."

Just then another tree interrupted. "Pardon me, but I just noticed that your cabin is made out of wood. Personally I find this choice of material rather inconsiderate, considering your audience, but seeing as how the cabin has already been made I can ignore that point. What I wanted to say though, is that since your cabin in the woods is made of wood, for the sake of speeding up your story, you might want to just say that once upon a time there was a man who lived in wood."

Another tree interrupted. "But you should add that some of that wood had been used to manufacture something: Once upon a time there lived a little man in wood, some of which had been made into something and some of which had not."

"That sounds too long, another tree interjected. Just say, once upon a time there was a little man who lived a partially-made, woodsy lifestyle."

"Still too long." Said another tree. "How about once upon a time there was a woodsy little man. Actually, little is redundant on account of the fact that all men are little. Just say once upon a time there was a woodsy man."

"A woodsy man? How does that differ from a tree? Maybe the story is actually about a tree?" Another tree said.

"You are right, once upon a time there was a tree."

"Yes a tree."

"Tree." Another tree said.

"Tree," said another, and soon the forest was full of "tree".

This tree talk made the man feel left out, even there in the midst of the crowded woods. It wasn't the first time the woods had made him feel lonely, and now he finally decided he had had enough. He was tired of being alone and wanted to go back to being around other humans. He therefore packed up his belongings, obtained financing from a group of international investors, cut down the trees, and built condos so he could have neighbors.

Just then one of the trees interrupted. "This is still just a story, right?"

"Correct. This is the story I am telling, not the story I am in."

"Well its not a very nice story. First you make fun of us trees by saying all we can think about are trees, and then you have all the trees cut down."

"I guess you're right. The man said. It was just a story though. I didn't mean any harm."

"Well you should have been more considerate. Even if we don't have brains, you can't be certain that we don't have feelings."

"I sincerely apologize. Perhaps I had better end the story right here. The end." He said.

Then the little man who was telling the story in which these events occurred, realizing that the man in his story had nothing else to say, ended his story as well.

"The end." He said

"The end." So too ended the story about that story about the story.

"The end." Ended the story about that.

"The end."

"The end."

"That's strange." One of the trees said. "There seem to have been too many the ends."

A tree held up a branch and tried to count off the stories on its twigs but soon lost track because it didn't know how many twigs it had to start with. "You could be right, but there's always one more storyteller to get rid of."