Precifice

There is a small circle where the wheat has not grown somewhere in the field. There you sit, directionless; no matter what way you go you are equally lost.

Does the mud feel softer than usual?

I asked you a f****** question.

Yes, it does. It's like walking on uncertainty, or maybe a christmas pudding or something.

The plants cannot speak but they hate you. They told me. Some of them were ok, sort of tolerant of you, but generally the feeling is of animosity.

A serpent's only wing made of goddamn railroads casts its hasty shadow and starts feeling... a certain... empathy, through familiarity. You have been walking for almost fourty seconds now and the wooden pole ahead beckons with its phone signals. Embracing it with a pressed waist is your only option.

The wheat looks upward as your translucent guardian sidles away embarrassedly. If you close your eyes now, you will fall asleep, and all will be pleasingly hazy.