A dark
    morning
becoming
     darker.

Alone in a world whose inconsistencies curl my damp pelt, I think: What is the human without the animal? Without me? Follicular roots of an overturned tree petrified into a smooth slate burred with natural groves, or intentional marks? Old growth speaks in the voice of a god obsessed with validation.

     Critical
habitat :
the beginning
             never
ends
.
       .  

Unable to read signs, to understand more deeply the meaning of the boundary, to attempt to experience the strange, we need not become the strange; we need only incur the risk of comprehending an unleashed dog prancing in the creek stirs up a brown cloud,

augu
    ring  rain.

 

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