Apparently if plants could speak they would talk in brief phrases that meander and loop over and over and over, only slightly varying with each iteration, yet still conveying great depth: showing that the seeming randomness of our electricity causally links us to nature, to the chill of air that hits you after rounding a corner, or the whirling path those helicopter seeds take after launching from their pods to the ground below, or the chirping crickets that won't shut the fuck up on a summer night yet still create a lulling drone that canvases an entire forest, as if blanketing your ears for protection from damning silence, from silence that, when present, makes you turn inward, chewing on your own thoughts to fill the void with some chatter all at the expense of your own sanity, which is merely the result of sparks running through your head in a certain fashion, the same sparks that reach out into air and feel that wind chill or process that image of the seed spinning, spinning, around and around, meandering through the air before abruptly coming to a halt, in the style of those plants, whose language floats about in a circle, both going nowhere but still saying so much in the process.
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