I am walking through a field, the crops are rotting there unharvested. Pristine. Before me appears a flower unfolding, a fruit in the center of the flower. The fruit is full of seeds, and each seed is germinating whilst still in its fruit. The fruit still unripe and attached to the plant. The plant is low to the ground under the weight of its sprouting fruit.

My physical reality is only my fruiting body, my roots are somewhere else. My soul-kernel cannot rot, yet it cannot sprout. My once-fallow soul is now worse than barren. Where patient striving once winnowed its way through the dead matter, there is only the corn of my soul that cannot sprout - it is sealed off from the forces of decomposition, it is left to slowly sink into its own graywater juices. unseen forces, feast on me, if it pleases you.

A plant is the accretion of life, the slow build-up of minerals on the hard earth, growing "joint by joint, knot by knot."

I woke up to picking herbs.