01/04/2021
Floyd
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Attempt of a chronicle of the pictures from the nowhere forest
What strange reports Horace had heard about the strange nowhere forest away from his village. It was supposed to be dark, full of smoke and excrement, mysterious herb witches and animals were up to their mischief there, Medianus, a Roman poet, wrote of oranges and shining stars, a travelling leather merchant even claimed that there was hardly any forest there, and a Swiss man even imagined a sun-drenched coastline there
Horace felt strange when he entered the legendary area, for at first there was a dense fog, dark, dusty and sharp-edged like desert incense, and yet somehow fresh and ethereal. There was a green glow, as if the cloud were pulsing, organically bioluminescent. Horace suspected resin-coughing needles, but there were no such woody plants there. Instead, he saw nagarmossy forest floor creeping up black trunks and tiny hesperids on their knotty branches, encircled by the smoldering green grit. Standing beside him, he noted it all down for his chronicle. Then there was the smell of cheese. The wretched kind. Horace was afraid the scent might come from his pack or footwear, wild animals might scent it and poach it, and so he soon discarded his pack and mountain boots, unaware of the perspiration capabilities of Indian woods. His notes were now also lost.
In time Burmese trees grew from earth, sank glowing in the nagarmoor others, fermented into sweet patchouli liquor, bubbling sandal cream to light, small labdanum crystals gleaming within. Horace knelt down. How futile now seemed any chronicle of the strange way. Roll in that swamp he would.
(With thanks to Kylesa)
In time Burmese trees grew from earth, sank glowing in the nagarmoor others, fermented into sweet patchouli liquor, bubbling sandal cream to light, small labdanum crystals gleaming within. Horace knelt down. How futile now seemed any chronicle of the strange way. Roll in that swamp he would.
(With thanks to Kylesa)
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