Created
2025-02-24 16:59:02.310 -0600
Observation
I am crushed beneath tendrils of greater men, drowning in the sickly sweetness of gifts bestowed to them by other gods. My neck has become root but follow my eyes, for they still flicker.
There, in the corner, I see you, Scribe! My gaze is upon you, he who takes roll call from the margins. If you would believe me Scribe, I was once a writer too. Felt I had words to bring together human and beast, and then I made mistake after mistake, and the vines grew all around me. Now you see the way I am.
Response 1
Is the object you hold knife or branch, and would you wager I could know?
Let me say knife, so you may slam its point against bark and dull it. Branch and you could whet the edges.
In the end I am left to say I do not know. Only that it is in your hands.
Revision
Not stuck. Stuck my head out. I made this room and it's just enough. A little left to squeeze out of this sour mushy rotten one.
