He didn't hold your hand. He held the space around your hand, so every tremor of yours became a question, every question a tendril of new growth.
You followed because the trees had teeth made of geometry and the only safe shape in the clearing was him — half father, half fungus, all patience. shroomsq daddy
“Bad loop?” You nodded, crying colors that hadn't been invented yet. He pressed a thumb to your third eye. Warm. Earthy. Final. He didn't hold your hand
When the trip turned sharp and jagged, he knelt — not to your height, but to your hurt . “Bad loop
Here’s a short, atmospheric piece titled: The forest floor pulsed low and violet. Not with insects — with intention .
He stood where the mycelium net split into neon fractals, wearing a velvet robe stitched with spore-print galaxies. His voice wasn't sound. It was a sub-bass hum that softened the edges of your fear.
“Then rewrite it. I’ll be the root you break against.”