You've been waiting. Waiting for hours on end. Your physicality has slipped away from you. Your entity relies on the encircling world. The world is blurry without a trace. It could be in front of you one moment, foreign the next.
You lie, in a comatose state. You're nothing more than a headcase, soon to be a rested one. You would tell them: How could one be strong, if they hadn't yet experienced weak? You were weak and you accepted it. It didn't make you any less. See, now this is what they fail to grasp. You didn't mind the synthesis, of soaking up the foliage. Feeling over form, as common Romantics would resound. The act made you feel small, that you belonged. In fact, it wasn't an act at all. You were right where you'd always dreamt of.
Petals have shrivelled in your palm. All your colour is drained as the sun hides away. It's time to go, they whispered.