Synopsis:
Uncurl the circle; jerk, away, from shapes that constrict. Incarnate instead the mycelial mind, a living lace that negotiates alliance, evades obstruction, or sometimes simply pierces root and rock. This subterranean teeming insinuates, the way our subconscious daydreams in the dark. Above, where light abounds, flowers are a language. Every hue, texture, form, and scent is proof that one species can learn to parse the drives of another, is an artful adaptation, manifold manipulation, is an insistence on more life. These are our flowers.
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