I twine through civilization's cracks, breathing light. Lifting a flower with supple resilience, clinging to high walls, growing upward.
This is not confrontation, but within the bone-like voids: T-man-guw.
An endless river flows between land and memory, softly stitching mountains, islands, and cities— the traversing sound of L-mu-huw.
Clothing is the heavy skin of social roles. It is soil that turns thread into the body’s reaching antennae. The sound of the loom tightening at the waist makes the torso and space curve in dialogue.
Stream water is like time, touching everyone. The arcs of masking tape fluttering in the wind trace the weight of pondering existence.
Driftwood in the city, amidst the echoes of striking buildings, searches for the place in memory where the body left the land.
"Can we"— In the memory of the seed, once more, In the new crevices, once more, Before flesh becomes soil, once more sprout, In the becoming of history, once more sprout?
Remember the temperature of continuous growth. Let the body and the world experience the slow process of sublimation together. Between stillness and motion, co-construct a language of "domain."