There’s a strange silence here that doesn’t feel like emptiness. It feels like waiting.
The Vision of the Plants.
The pages weren't written in ink. They were drawn in sap, pressed leaves, and crushed berries. Each chapter is a root system. Each verse is a vine climbing toward the light. There’s a strange silence here that doesn’t feel
They call him still, though he abandoned his rank long ago. No ship. No crew. Just a compass that spins in circles and a hammock that has rotted to threads. There’s a strange silence here that doesn’t feel
Tonight, I drink to the Captain. And tomorrow, I let the vision grow. There’s a strange silence here that doesn’t feel
The Captain wasn't mad. He was listening .