⌻⍾⎎
Was it minutes or months ago when we found that narrow cleft in the rocks?
Squeezing toward the root chamber, the Voice's reverberations braiding into unison.
Jenkins glimpsed a pale shimmer along a second corridor, narrower still.
It opened to a forest. Such strange, lush growth.
The root visions always bear some trace of a dream. Softness at the edges. But this has no such veil.
We are each clear, sharp, wakeful.
