mexutosuhu by sonnov
A labyrinth of petrified breath—trees arch like frozen hymns, their bark etched with glyphs of unspoken seasons. The light here is a thief, stealing color, leaving only the afterimage of paths that loop into themselves. Shadows don’t follow; they lead, pooling at your feet as liquid obsidian, whispering in a dialect of wind and bone. Things move without motion: a flutter of leaves that are not leaves, a ripple where no water flows. The air tastes of static and sap, thick with the musk of fungi dreaming in reverse. You are neither lost nor found. The forest breathes through you, its pulse a dissonance that rewrites the map of your veins. To enter is to become a rumor—a flicker in the periphery of a world that forgets itself with every step.
