Storms of blackened sky and dampened earth. Thunderous silence. Aggressive solitude. Rot; erode, my afflicted qualia. Decompose, my ignorant regalia. Again, to grow, from blackened sky? Arise; from soot and silt, a sprout, amongst the flowing dirt.

Return to your mother, and be exhaled as color, anew, your own.
This heavy chested, poignant, indescribable emotion of chaos amongst emptiness; I suppose I will forever fail to describe it.
Who are you? Who am I? How can we be empty, or full, if we are not even shells?
Cyclical life, extant but fleeting, yet never without itself, throughout, without, inside, and beyond time.
We are the ocean as well as the drops, the sand, the shells, the air above, the sky beyond, the space and time and energy. Microcosms.
I don't understand.