I've been still so long that the vines, they climb to grip my throat. Cloaked in silence, enchroached by a sense of violence that has enshrined my home. My breath, it stirs me, the autonomy creating motion among the bas-relief sculpture I've become. How did I get here. What begot this stasis, this self-induced paralysis. I've been waiting so long I forgot what this longing was for. Whatever it was, it's not coming. It will not find you. No one will. If you cease to move, this world will consume you. This life, in all its brevity, is your chance to transcend the dust you will inevitably become. Rise or let the vines stake their claim.