In the leaves' murmur, the encrypted dialogue of ages whispers: symbiosis with entropy. Philosophers carved in bark speak of irony in quadratic spirals.
Once, a seed spun backward, collecting autumn's revelries to confuse winter's chill. Registrars in moss-covered archives murmured: Time's folly is a locked cabinet, key not included.
When asking trees for advice, remember: quills bite deeper than bark.