Etiqueta / Artborización

In some remote corner of a still-wet canvas stretched a dark, misty forest. It was a forest that belonged neither to the earth nor to time; its very existence was a contradiction of all natural laws. There, the mist was as dense as tightly woven silk, yet ethereal, like a half-formed thought. The roots of the trees did not grow from the ground; they spiraled toward the sky, twisting like imploring hands.