Tree Threads Wake. Behold the high of rust, gold, and glints of blue. It shivers neath soft northern whispers. Leaves are playing. Upon their swaying backs ride living threads. White worms, by the thousands, stretch, spiral, reach. There is no place to hide. Limbs stretch long and wide to share the bounty of their burden. Let it snow, perhaps we'll know a drift of cold salvation. A Force Underworld is never clear. Eternal is the dark that we must dust. A soft electric song sings through the sag of shallow veins. The Force has found me once again. Move dark mountains with but a wave. No. Not a budge. But where the fire hisses, soft and simple things obey rusty orchestrations. Snap a finger... surge of light! Soul-like shadows shapeshift. Cobwebs clot, creep like snakes. Trash dust devils surge and scrape. Stories soar on ink stained wings. One may yet master these morbid things.
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