On the slopes of Driftseed Moor, dandelions dance. In this vastness, it is hard to tell if stars are fallen se…
On the slopes of Driftseed Moor, dandelions dance. In this vastness, it is hard to tell if stars are fallen seeds, or if seeds take flight as stars. This high reach should be desolate, yet a lone hut draws countless stargazers. By night, the crisp air holds no loneliness.
Drifting seeds, wandering stars, rootless lives: all are but fleeting blooms.