In a sense, a plant...

In a general direction. Plants grow towards light. Tropism. Not this one. A plant made not of vegetable matter, but stone, blood, breath, mossy matter before division. It inclined itself towards a direction before ay direction could be sorted out. Calling out. Before a within/without relation established. Songs of floral voices calling for light. And it, the light, sprouted out from its cornered place. It is possible to hide between the fold of the time fabric, just a second away from space. Interstices of vibrations. And it folded into its own outside, bursting out. Now the plant relinquishes its commencement powers, now it breathes in rhythm, now it inclines passively towards it. Normalcy. We may begin.