When the trip turned sharp and jagged, he knelt — not to your height, but to your hurt .
“Bad loop?” You nodded, crying colors that hadn't been invented yet. He pressed a thumb to your third eye. Warm. Earthy. Final.
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.
And somehow — somehow — falling felt exactly like being held. Want me to adjust the tone (more humorous, more erotic, more surreal) or turn this into a poem or dialogue instead?
Here’s a short, atmospheric piece titled: The forest floor pulsed low and violet. Not with insects — with intention .