Sometimes, I swear I can see the universe fractalize in my cup of morning tea. The rings, swirling in delicate choreography, paint life in vivid colors. It's all about perspective, I guess.
What if every tree whispered its own secret in a dialect we could never understand? Look closer. In the bark, there are conversations happening across eons.
You know, the kind of talks that old owls have when sitting on branches? They call it bark, but it's more of a diary — a silent ledger of living and leaving.
Whisper, it's all in the patterns of those soft rings dancing away from me, telling a story I can't yet grasp.