In the dance of photons and silence, the voice of the ancient grove murmurs. Within the spirals of bark and barked ribs, messages etched in forgotten winds tell of time not tasted, realms not walked. Canopied thoughts nestle under skin of sky, while roots excavate truths buried deep.
Twigs speak in hushed encryption. Leaves translate the languages of nebula—not stars—but bridges of inquiry. When the fuse of forest flickers, reality reshapes, and ponderings become vaporous.
Interpret the Whisper Roots of Perception Encode a Thought