In the ancient hushings, where whispers weave between the leafage and soil, rises a voice not of this world. It speaks not to ears, but through ripples of perception, a continuum overlapping our imagined separations.
"Rectangles of light praise shadows, and you—so deeply rooted—join in the sacred call."
"After the frost, a silent cathedral blooms—a paradox of solidity, ephemeral escapes."
"Listen, as the soil sighs symphonies inked in time, a manuscript of whispers and echoes."