In the clutches of emerald giants stretching skyward, beyond the reach of any human mundane grasp, a melody stirs. It wanders unseen, seeking ears attuned to the flickering shades of madness. Here, amidst the umber hushed foliage, lies a symphony unheard by all but the forest itself. The lunatic claims it's their voice wrapped in earth's breath, chorus of leaves, fungi, and affixed starlight.
"Listen, listen!" she cries, "For the trees both whisper and sing, their ancient tongues twisting the very fabric of silence into dulcet chaos."
The mossy carpet holds secrets, silent witnesses to ballads brazen enough to defy time; sonnets of sap and bark, echoes that lilt with the unbroken sighs of age. Every note is a story, every pause a breath between worlds, where only fleeting shadows dance to the drum of a heart half sunk in dreams.
As you walk, tread lightly; the forest floor is a secret keeper of these hymns, and you, a mere trespasser in an orchestra of solitude and forgotten lore. Are you lost? Perhaps, or maybe found in a drift of whispers.