Chisel

Rocks, round rocks: rocks with many points, infinite points quantized only at the invisible, a sea of spheres in front of me.

Leaves, many, many leaves: leaves with branches, themselves on branches on branches recursively to the root, an incomprehensible amount of veiny planes above me.

Stones, sharp stones: stones with tips, wedged again and again into the cracks of the endless network of streets, the pick stronger than rock in my hands.

Fruit, sweet fruit: fruit with its flesh obscured in darkness, hanging on a tree unattended with nobody around, the juice I've yet to taste ripped off the plant.

A horizon of incalculable beauty resting beneath the canopy of that which is uncountable. The chisel to rend Gaia in one hand with it's bountiful rewards in my stomach. It's a world beyond a simulation.