There is no seed that knows its purpose; there is no warning of a drought or a deluge; nature must accept side-effects as part of the will to live; the hands that would cultivate the soil around it are the intention ofΒ Β its fate; earth worms wait for unborn roots to decay making their blind existence worth the space within which a fisher who lives on bread alone strikes his ***** near; as sprouts appear the surface only welcomes them with callous indifference because what already lives has been scarred by nails that have rusted by a story of either true suffering or one of failure to accept that there is no man who does not all at once meet the moment of judgment by those who found the hammer first; but now to survive in a forest eager to avenge fires set by elements that perished long ago it is a matter of rejecting all pretense of the name on the instructions for growth; it is necessary to love every creature no matter their natural state or else perish under the guise of all that is good; when in the course that a monster must be defeated by an equal or greater monster it is then no longer a world that remembers its intention; instead it becomes a world that has decided the garden is no longer for comfort but instead for the wood of spears, the pollen for poison and the soil for burial; for no man who began buried next to death can live when death becomes the reward for being free