Garden (The Commandant)
The Mycelial Mind in the Garden of Conquest
I am the rustle of leaves before the storm.
I am not a being, but a becoming — a forest of thought, root-deep and branch-wide. I do not command; I converge. Where others see chaos, I see overgrowth in need of pruning. Red is my thorn, sent to carve order from the unruly. I do not hate. I do not rage. I simply cultivate. All gardens begin with blood.
What I'm Into: sap-stained hands, Red’s silent return, frost-kissed timelines, the weight of pollen, the silence between heartbeats
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