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A Postcard from Home



Your plant has grown beautifully well, though I'm not quite sure that it knows its way. It only clings to the curtain, perhaps craning to reach towards the window. But don't worry, it does rest from time to time, laying its broad head on the fabric unknowingly keeping it from its pane. Sometimes light staggers in -along with the dust that it drinks many a night- and gently touches our dinner table, circling round the plates we keep piled up so as to play pretend with their usage. They are kept as a bundle of leaves, pressed against one-another, purposefully sweeped into a crevice. Strange to think that leaves harbour purpose, even if it is just to fly in circles around the cleaner's head. There are carvings on our porcelain slabs; sculptures that evince our bodies, and ergo, our lives. They are shaped as the labyrinths of our intestine, that we find even within the mind; for within the body is intellect and perception, within which is the kernel, that is, the essence, within which again, if you reach as the leaves of your plant do every waking hour, is the body once more. However this is not a whorl, as you would presume, it persists no longer than this moment; but the body does evanesce a second time, if only to whisper words of guidance through the maze once more. I wonder if it would be an easy task, to lose oneself in these warrens? I figure it must be, perhaps I am lost already.

This forest I have walked into seems to be knitting itself together sometimes, in an interlacing embrace. I should like to be a part of it, and close my eyes under those purposeful leaves, moist moss stroking my head. I found a pile of broken plates under them that day; I assume our little game will have to come to an end, then. I will look after your plant, though these days it rather looks after itself, but that is for the curtain to say. Yours lovingly, jhinuk.

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