June 9, 2024

 

An elusive corpse flower blooms every year near a field of sea lavender, its stem emits a glow in the deepest shade of indigo on moonless nights. Tilt your head to one side, hide yourself under the cover of night, and focus your internal antenna to the pull of the earth’s greening. Last summer you camped out in clumps of wild fennel. Q: Where will you sleep tonight? A: Under a veil of crushed blue velvet, listening to sludge, peacing out, totally.

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Today: the skunky-green scent emitted by a wreath of dried mugwort hung over your pillow, a craggy shard of danburite, music in the key of A, the skull of a tiny black cat that turns into dust, and the thorny kiss of bramble.