You pick a single fruit and gently bite, tasting the juice; the flavour is rich and mellow, just a little sweet. The berry itself has a dense but tender flesh and a handful prove a satisfying meal. Content, you lie back, resting in the fork of a yielding branch. Your eyes grow heavy, and that suits you just fine. Could there be any more inviting a bed?
You dream vivid scenes of bizarre events, in which your body grows less coherent, more diffuse. You become a creature of ever less certain nature, pulled this way and that by vast creative forces, dispersing out across the void, at last universal.
Shivering, you lift yourself, the snow slipping off in clumps and vanishing in among the flakes, breaking up as it falls to the white expanse of the forest floor. The wind blows icy in your face. You start back along the branch to the trunk, and from there clamber down to the ground, muscles aching and teeth chattering. No paths are to be seen.
Seek a hollow among the roots of the tree Blog One
Strike out into the forest Blog One Blog Two