There lies an inscrutable tapestry within the bark, as philosophers once mused and lunatics proclaimed upon moon-drenched nights. The patterns, unmistakably simple to the educated eye, unveil complex ciphered messages only decipherable through a lunatic lens. It's the twist of the sylvan tongue that encodes secrets unbeknownst to the rational mind. "On barks of old, our fate was twined, in patterns writ, the unseen bind." Let no one dismiss the lunatic's yammering. It is the violent cyclical dance of the Sapwood Savant, whose paper tongues unfurl the mysteries of sycamore and cedar. The secret resides in grooves and folds, oscillating between logic and the insane soliloquies of the Wood Whisperer. Unlike bark itself, belief crumbles under scrutiny, yet the truth within bark persists—a relic frozen in vegetal communion. To those that read this with curiosity unquenched: