In the whispering textures of twilight, the stinging nettle speaks. Its voice, a silent roar, echoes through neural corridors.
Fragments float, lost in the realm: Shadow Bloom, the glitched ember, fading luminescence.
Once, a dream weaver whispered secrets beneath the urrets of glass and fog.
Involuntary truths spill from the hidden vein, only to be captured by the untamed.
Touching the nettle, I feel the past unravel, a tactile memory.