I tried to touch a blade of grass. My fingers passed through it. Or rather, it passed through me . I was the ghost. The plants were the anchors: solid, ancient, drunk on their own steady growth. My human dizziness was just a poor imitation of their stillness.

A vine curled around my ankle. It did not pull. It simply insisted . It whispered in the language of dew and decay: You are just a passing symptom. We are the hangover that never ends.

Vertigem Verde (Green Vertigo)