To follow our rabbits, hope the hole never ends, just gets too dark too know.
We go to seek new origins.
Think of me as a sound, as a peculiar type of wind, as a shade of darkness in the unknown contours of a cave. The path of a water droplet. The after-twang of a banjo.
Nothing stays the same for long.
A leaf-beetle's dance,
the ache to become a song.