Mist impenetrable. Mountain unclimbable. Wall of ivy reaching into the empyrean. Thorns of barbed wire. Bastion guarded by statues alive in the gloom. Your steps warp the path. They condemn to blasphemy — your home, those you hold dear, and finally yourself. What shields the place where it began? It is all illusion—fantastic deceit.

Is there a way to return? Did I seal the path?

In the beginning I made sure everything you needed was at hand. You came of age under my wings. A gentle correction with the gesture of a hand and a firm pull on the reins. Your hands, so close to the ground, mold elemental material into rings which adorned the mass of your fingers. We developed a system. 0–1–1–2–3–5... A step became a meter. A distance became a frame. Within this frame, your nails dug into the soil. There in the depths you hid a collection outside of my watching eye. If I had truly wanted, my consciousness could have followed you inward. Out of negligence, for it could not be carelessness, I granted you your particular individuality. This was my mistake.

[...]

I cried masses of saltwater. Where my grief met with the earth and the secrets hidden there, a mangrove grew. Its thin roots pierced the celestial sphere. For a moment, you were fascinated and dwelled among the branches. That too faded. You wanted to do it yourself. You wanted to have it yourself. The canopy illuminated brightly in flames. Acceleration—from a pilot light to a wildfire, this was progress. Onward, onward, onward. And from the deep, secrets, structures, thrones, soldiers awakened. There is no mist impenetrable. No mountain unclimbable.

Garden.