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)
The ferns were the worst. Or the best. They uncurled like the green tongues of sleeping giants, each spiral a labyrinth I could fall into. When I blinked, the afterimage wasn't a blob of light—it was the memory of photosynthesis. The shadow of the tree was not darkness; it was the tree’s other half, resting. grogue visão das plantas
The sun had not just set; it had melted . It dripped down through the canopy in thick, amber rivulets, staining the ferns the color of old honey. That was the first sign that my vision belonged to the —not the drunkenness of wine, but the dizzy intoxication of chlorophyll. A vine curled around my ankle