My mind is a wasteland, overrun by the wild growth of seeds that produce all the flora that cannot be tamed. The earth beneath it breathes heavy, making the ground slowly rise and fall, causing minute disruptions in the beds lain upon it. As these cracks and fissures are formed throughout the open air expanse, the steams from the nourishment below spew forth from these openings, making the linear view seem to be nothing more than a field of geysers ready to explode. But that is an illusion, as most things in this environment are, tricking those who take chance to come visit into believing they know what they see. But what they see is never what is there. What they see is an existence beyond comprehension, and their feeble mind makes it comprehensible in order to sustain its own sanity. But what they see isn't real. What you see is never real.