Nature’s rational geometry, a sanctuary in six sides. In these cells, Man stores honey, thoughts, and bone. Every chamber, a precise seating of the soul within the wild.
Asphalt veins, attempting to stitch the earth with logic. In the rush, we forget the soil. The faster the speed, the more thought becomes a scattered seed. We chase the ahead, while rooted in the pulse of the vast.
A divine kiss on the earth. The line never moves; it only measures our nostalgia. When the body halts at the clearing, thought begins its dive into the infinite. There, smallness is the only ticket to the sublime.
A bowstring, a breath—capturing the forest’s beating pulse. Man hunts for meaning, as a beast hunts its shadow. In the end, we are the prey claimed by the wild. We are consumed, and eternally held.